A Fate Worse Than Death
by DirtyFox2
Summary: The Reaper War has ended and Garrus and Vega return to the Citadel to recover Commander Shepard's remains. However, a surprise is in store for them that soon leads them on an expanding mystery across the galaxy to find Shepard and finally lay him to rest. Plenty of familiar old faces. Rated M for violence, language and suggestive themes.
1. Chapter 1

From the air the wards looked more like a graveyard than the once thriving center of galactic society. The buildings, shadows of their former technological glory, looked like centuries old tombstones reaching up from a dismal scene in the streets below. The once vibrant towers of the Wards were crumbling shambles; evidence of the Reapers destruction and the serious damage that resulted on the Citadel and Mass Relays. Whatever Shepard had done once he initiated the Catalyst it had been enough to devastate every inch of the Citadel.

"It looks as bad as Earth," Lieutenant James Vega, hulking Alliance Marine, observed dryly. He stood rigidly in the entry hatch of a Systems Alliance UT-47A Kodiak as it skimmed by the dozens of ruinous, battered buildings that once housed asari and volus investment banking firms. The door to the Kodiak was wide open and James balanced himself by hanging onto a crew handle overhead. His eyes studied the destruction. _Was this the price for victory?_ He wondered. How many lay dead in the streets below? How many had they failed to save?

"I imagine Palaven is the same," Garrus Vakarian, former C-Sec officer and turian marksman commented. He stood in the hatch beside James, surveying the damage left in the wake of the galaxy's greatest battle—the fight to beat the Reapers.

"Speaking of Palaven," James began, raising his voice so it could be heard over the roar of the mass effect fields that kept the Kodiak aloft. "Why aren't you there helping rebuild?"

Garrus' scarred face turned to address his compatriot. "I owe Shepard this much, at least. Besides, I was never very good at fixing things."

"Well, it's good to have you here, Scars," Vega remarked with a toothy grin. Scars had been a nickname the well-muscled Marine had bestowed upon his turian crewmate thanks to the ample facial scarring Garrus had suffered at the hands of some relentless mercenaries on Omega. It fit Garrus well, or so Vega thought.

"Don't get too excited. Opinions might change when I make you look bad in action," Garrus announced wryly. But both of them doubted there would be any action here on the Citadel. The place was a miserable graveyard.

"This is the last spot the transponder on his armor gave as a location," Lieutenant Haley Collins explained as she glanced back at the two stalwart veterans of the Normandy.

"You sure about that?" Vega questioned as he gazed down into the rubble below. Buildings had been leveled by the explosions that rocked the Citadel once the Catalyst had been activated by Commander Shepard. Vega could see steel beams and heavy girders used to support the skyscrapers that once occupied the mighty station's skyline strewn about the cramped thoroughfares below.

"Your friend Liara was adamant when I asked her the same question," Lieutenant Collins replied without hesitation, as if she was expecting the doubt. It wasn't easy being a new face among battle-hardened heroes that had been through hell together. It wasn't as if Haley was a stranger to the battle on Earth, after all she had flown two sorties to get troops on the deck as a part of Hammer, the ground force sent to reach the beam leading to the Citadel. There were a lot of faces from the pre-flight briefing she didn't see on the ground after the battle had been won. Some might have considered reassignment to the Normandy a great honor, but Collins wasn't sure she felt that way.

"Okay, you can set us down here," Vega ordered. Collins was competent enough, but Vega still reserved his judgment. After all, she was replacing Lieutenant Steve Cortez—Esteban—and that was hard for Vega to accept. Cortez had been an old friend and sadly another in a long line of men and women that had laid down their lives in service to something bigger than themselves.

The Kodiak's engines roared with the familiar grumble that Vega and Garrus both knew so well after countless forays into danger side by side with Commander Shepard. They felt the mass effect field stabilizing the shuttle's descent as it touched down, kicking up a hail of dirt and rock. The duo deftly hopped out of the open entry hatch and shielded themselves from the debris sprayed their direction as the Kodiak's engines flared and it once again took to the dreary skies overhead.

Vega felt his fingertips dance lightly over the pistol grip of his N7 Typhoon Assault Rifle. The urge to yank it free from its position on his back felt overwhelming, but it was unnecessary. There were no threats now. Shepard had seen to that. His hand dropped languidly to his side and he wondered if he'd ever draw and fire his weapon in anger again.

Of course he would. That was a silly thought. He was an Alliance Marine and trouble had already started brewing in the galaxy just months after the Reaper's defeat.

Vega shook off the thoughts and turned his attention to the scene around him. There were more pressing concerns—namely finding Shepard's body and laying him to rest. Vega shuddered at the thought of his friend and mentor lying amidst the rubble of the Citadel slowly decomposing after valiantly giving his life to save the Milky Way. He deserved more than that. It had taken the Normandy months to return to the Sol system thanks to the damaged mass effect relays and that journey had started after weeks of repairs to get the trusty ship flying again.

"It's like something out of a horror movie," Garrus murmured. He was ten paces ahead of Vega and gaging the avenues and storefronts around them. It was nigh unrecognizable from what it had once been. Shop windows were shattered and jagged shards of glass lay strewn everywhere. A myriad of different goods from the various vendors lay about the area among rubble and debris from stories high above.

But more horrible than all of that were the bodies… the heaps and heaps of bodies in various degrees of decomposition.

"Dios mio," James Vega said quietly as he began to absorb the charnel house around him. There were hundreds of bodies strewn about around them. Having noticed it for the first time the smell suddenly became apparent to him and he nearly retched. Dried blood was evident upon the walls and in the streets and gutters where it had probably pooled in great quantities before drying after weeks of exposure. Bodies were bloated, corrupted by their own internal processes post-mortem and Vega found it hard to breathe.

There were asari, turians, salarians, krogan and humans. All of them looked dismal and wretched. Their eyes had rotted out, replaced by pearls of darkness that leant each twisted face a frightening, ghoulish appearance. This was the true nature of the Reaper's grisly harvesting process. Vega knew the Reapers had been sending people up to the Citadel via the beam that originated in London, but it did not prepare him for this ghastly vision.

"C'mon, Vega… Shepard's waited long enough," Garrus stated calmly, seemingly undisturbed by the horror surrounding them. But the sight was enough to force Garrus to avert his gaze. He knew what the Reapers were capable of; he knew this was likely what the inside of a detainment camp looked like. Knowing didn't trouble him any less. But Garrus was here to find Shepard. And he resolved himself to do just that.

The pair of them ascended up the gentle slope of a ramp created by a fallen wall from a nearby restaurant. Vega picked his way through the debris hoping not to see any more bodies, but it was impossible to avoid them. They were all over the area like carelessly discarded trash. In the avenues below they had been piled into mounds as high as Vega's chest. He wondered how many extinguished lives lay scattered around them. How many hopeful families wondered if their kin on the Citadel survived when the truth of their fate was far more grisly? The corpses were less obvious in the rubble around them. Most of the poor souls had been crushed by the debris when it collapsed and occasionally Vega spotted a hand extending from beneath the refuse. There were limbs as well. Arms, legs and sometimes a head, but the bodies they had been connected to were gone. It was wretched, but Vega buried the feelings and veiled his anger. He needed to focus on finding Shepard.

Garrus scanned the area looking for anything remotely familiar that would indicate where Shepard's body was, but he could see nothing that resembled the N7 soldier. There was an internal doubt that mingled with a hope that had existed deep within him. The turian had been through the unimaginable with Shepard on multiple occasions and the man had an uncanny ability to survive the most desperate circumstances. Of course he was dead now. But Garrus wanted to see that he was paid the respect he deserved as a warrior and a friend. He wanted to lay Commander Shepard to rest, but the idea of finding him amid the shambles around them seemed almost hopeless. He glanced down at the readings on his omni-tool. "He should be somewhere up ahead. Maybe twenty meters," he reported hopefully.

The two of them climbed down the opposite slope of the rubble they'd clambered earlier and stepped into yet another river of gore and carcasses. Vega shook his head contritely. He felt lousy. He wondered how many scenes just like this were present across the galaxy. It had taken them too long to beat the Reapers. The price, as he looked upon it now, was far too high. But he forced his eyes to continue to survey the bloody mess as he searched for Shepard's remains.

On a skyway on the tier over their heads the bright green leaves of several exotic plant species swayed in the artificial breeze, still tended to by the diligent keepers. The sight of the trimmed foliage was an odd contrast against the bloody gore that painted the Citadel's thoroughfares.

Of course the Keepers had continued to tend to the duties they existed solely for. Like the automatons they were, they had already begun to repair much of the damage the Citadel had sustained. But the task was monumental and even with the help of cleanup crews it would be a long time before the Citadel was a place anyone could live again. But then who would want to? It was the graveyard for hundreds of thousands now. Vega didn't much believe in ghosts, but it seemed hard to believe there would be a few lingering souls haunting the corridors of the Citadel once normalcy was restored. _If_ it could be restored.

One of the green, multi-limbed creatures shuffled past the human Marine and turian sniper, oblivious of the carnage around it. It adeptly stepped over the limp limbs and dead bodies. Its spidery appendages daintily navigated through the tangle of bodies until it disappeared around a corner not far off, leaving the duo in silence as they watched it go.

"Those things creep me out, man," Vega stated as he watched it pass.

"Yeah, can't say I was ever a fan," Garrus agreed.

They continued to pick their way through the mess of debris and the dead until Garrus' omni-tool chirped repeatedly, indicating they had arrived at the designated location where Shepard's beacon had originally resonated. "This should be it."

Vega looked around, but there was no sign of Shepard. A hefty strut lay slanted against the cracked wall of a tall apartment complex. There was dried blood at the foot of the wall and streaks of it that mingled with the fractured surface itself. Fissures ran throughout what remained of the structure and yet more rubble lay in mounds at its base. But there was no Shepard. "Where is he?" Vega asked irritably.

"I'm… not certain. These are the coordinates Liara gave us. He should be here," the turian repeated.

"Well he's not," Vega seethed. He felt his hand curl into a fist as a surge of frustration ran through his body. He was almost shaking. _Where the hell is he?_ Liara didn't get this sort of thing wrong.

All N7s were equipped with emergency transponders in case they needed to be retrieved from covert operations but were unable to call for extraction because of injury, death or a communications blackout. Shepard's had been activated two days after the explosion that had rocked the Citadel and ended the Reaper menace. And it emanated from this location for weeks before shutting down.

_So where is he?_ Vega could suddenly feel every muscle in his body trembling with anger. He felt like he had failed. Once again he had not lived up to the so-called potential his superiors had always lauded him for possessing. Shepard had trusted him. He'd told him that the Alliance was right to select Vega for the N7 program, but the Alliance Marine had let down his last Commander.

"Wait a sec," Garrus announced abruptly. He knelt down and sifted through some rubbish near the dried blood and then held up his gloved hand. He was clutching a chain that swung ever-so-slightly to and fro; at the end of the chain the unmistakable sight of an Alliance ID tag dangled. Garrus rose to his feet and held the tag before his studious gaze. There was a smattering of dried blood and the aluminum face of the tag was scratched up severely, but Garrus could still read the name of its owner. "John Shepard. N7. O positive," his voice was hollow as he read it.

"So he was here," Vega said unnecessarily.

"He _was_," Garrus added. "But where did he go?"

"We're going to find out," Vega declared sincerely. They searched the surrounding area for what seemed like hours, but to no avail. There was no sign of Shepard's body or any of the equipment or armor he'd been using. Aside from the dog tag they'd found there were no clues. Shepard had indeed been there, but as far as where he had gone—they had no idea. They agreed they would return to the Normandy and brainstorm in order to find a solution to their current problem. Despite their confidence being shaken, they had no intention of giving up the search for Shepard's body.

Vega's hand reached up to touch the communications ear bud. "Collins, this is Vega, we need a pick up ASAP. We've got work to do."


	2. Chapter 2

"What are you saying?" Liara T'Soni, asari scientist and Commander John Shepard's paramour demanded vehemently. She smashed her fists into the table and a purplish flare ignited around them as she struggled to control her disappointment.

"Exactly what it sounds like, Doc," Vega replied. He was seated at the table in the Normandy's dining hall on the crew deck and was somewhat unnerved by the asari scientist's reaction to the news he had unceremoniously delivered.

He was dressed casually now, having traded his heavy armor for a pair of utility trousers and a tight-fitting undershirt. "He wasn't there."

"But… the coordinates. I gave you the coordinates," she stammered. "How could he be missing?" She felt her heart sink.

She could remember the sound of his voice echoing in her ear, willing her to get aboard the Normandy. He saved her life. _Again_. And it was the last time she'd ever seen him. The image of him plowing forward, even in under threat of Harbinger's assaults, was burned forever in her mind. Had it not been for Garrus she'd have run down the Normandy's hangar ramp and rejoined Shepard. He would have hated her for it. But she didn't care. She only wanted to be by his side in the final moments of their galaxy-spanning adventure.

But it was not to be. Garrus clamped her tightly against his battered armor, the ramp closed and the Normandy escaped into space. When the final blast emanated from deep within the bowels of the Citadel Joker was already rocketing out of the Sol system via the Charon relay. And Shepard was gone from her life forever.

Then like a sick joke hope had been rekindled in her heart.

The distress and retrieval beacon hardwired into Commander Shepard's suit had been activated. Liara cajoled her crewmates to get the Normandy space-worthy again so she could be reunited with her love once more. For weeks she watched the blinking indication light on her console and imagined Shepard alone and battered waiting for her. She hoped, against all odds, that she would see him again and that he would be alive and well. He survived one terrible trip to the afterlife, so why couldn't he do it again? But as time dragged on and the repairs to the Normandy took longer and longer she felt the hope begin to fade. And then one day his beacon was deactivated and the hope that had accompanied her in the lonely hours of the night was replaced by terrifying doubt and uncertainty.

Vega let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head at a loss for words. "I don't know, Doc. I don't know."

"Something wasn't right," Garrus said suddenly. He leaned his full weight on two outstretched arms, palms laid flat on the table. Behind him a few errant cables drooped loosely from ceiling panels.

"What do you mean?" Liara asked, turning her cherubic blue eyes on an old friend. Being close to Garrus felt like the only way she could still be close to Shepard. They shared so much history that Garrus often filled her with warm memories of the human that had captured her imagination and her heart.

"C-Sec and Alliance personnel have been combing through the ruins, but with so many casualties and the sheer size of the Citadel it's no surprise they never swept the area James and I visited," Garrus' raptor like talons gently scratched at one of his mandibles as he formulated his next sentence with some thought. "What I don't understand is how the Alliance never received Shepard's signal. If we got it then surely they did."

"They wouldn't have known," Vega answered simply. "Every N7s kit is equipped with one of those transponders but no ID tag accompanies the transmission. Missions are normally well coordinated and supported, so usually they would know who the transmission belongs to. But Earth was a mess. The Alliance is probably swamped with emergency signals. Hell, wouldn't be surprised if they just stopped monitoring the frequency altogether."

"That's horrible," Liara lamented. "All those lives…"

"Too much to do and not enough people," Vega shrugged. "I mean you saw it down there—the place is a mess."

"True, but there still has to be an explanation about where his body went. The coordinates were accurate; we found his tags so that means he was there at some point," Garrus elaborate. He stood to his full height, towering of the seated Marine. He crossed his arms.

"Was there anyone else on the Citadel besides Alliance and C-Sec personnel?" Vega asked. He leaned back in his seat trying to posit a scenario in his head. The positive setting was that Shepard was alive and simply got up, dusted off his shoulder and walked away. But that was impossible. There hadn't been a soul left alive on the Citadel after the Catalyst blew.

"Yes," a familiar voice chirped from the far side of the deck.

The three of them turned around in time to see Tali'Zorah Vas Normandy, the quarian technical genius, round the corner—apparently having just come from the elevator. "Traynor and I have been analyzing communications to and from the Citadel after hacking into a comm-buoy nexus to see if there was any news about locating Shepard.

"Glyph helped us parse through all communications coming from the Citadel in the weeks leading up to our arrival. I uh, hope you don't mind, Liara." Tali's accented voice resonated bashfully from behind the mask she wore. Quarians' voices often seemed disembodied as their masks veiled their faces. Body language was an important facet of communication for all races, but Tali's presence was always characterized by warmth and sincerity despite the obscuration of her most telling features. Even James, who had only known her for a short time, had grown to care very deeply for the machinist with a heart of platinum.

"Of course not, Tali," Liara insisted, eager to hear what she had discovered.

"There was a lot of data," Tali continued. Wide hips swayed with each step, catching Garrus' eye as she joined them all at the table. "Most of it was C-Sec and Alliance troops briefing their commanders on the state of the wards. It didn't take long to pick out the patterns. Most of the information was the same, so using a quickly constructed algorithm I had Glyph search for transmissions that differed from standard Alliance sit-reps."

"And?" Vega leaned forward, anxious for the information. He didn't care about the how, he only wanted the what.

"And it didn't take long for something to break the pattern. Unencrypted transmissions from an unknown third party…" The omni-tool on her wrist illuminated as she punched in a few commands to play back the audio file. "This was the only transmission that aroused suspicion."

There was silence for a while, then the sound of white noise for several seconds. Finally, a male voice crackled over the sound of the static. _"What have *inaudible*… anything good?"_

_"Yes… *inaudible*… we've got a lot but… *inaudible*… for now. Wait… we got something. Oh yes this *inaudible* worth a lot. More than all the *inaudible*. Not… *inaudible*… but who,"_ the transmission ended with a chuckle that faded into obscure static.

"Whoever that was—it wasn't C-Sec or the Alliance," Vega pointed out. His bulky frame rose ominously from the table. "We need to find them."

"My best guess is they are scrappers—scavengers," Tali observed. The quarians were no strangers to scavenging; it had been a necessity of life when growing up aboard the Migrant Fleet. Every quarian's pilgrimage was about bringing something useful back to the fleet; technology, equipment, spare parts—anything that could make life in the fleet easier. But that particular quarian trait did not endear them much with other races in the galaxy.

"Scavengers? Who would pillage such a place so soon after the fighting?" Liara questioned with a mixture of confusion and disdain. She was not the same scientist Shepard had rescued years before on Therum. There was a cunning and guile to her that hadn't existed before. Yet her innocence and naiveté showed through at times.

"Scavengers are as old as war, Liara," Garrus explained. "They're vultures picking battlefields clean to turn a profit. Morality and reverence for the dead doesn't play into it."

"So how do we find them?" Vega questioned impatiently. Vega looked at Tali, then Liara. "Any ideas?"

Liara struggled to think, her mind was clouded with despair and the thought of Shepard's remains being carted off by some band of disgusting foragers.

But it wasn't so long ago that Liara had journeyed across vast expanses in space to retrieve his corpse. _That was different_. She knew what the Shadow Broker had in store for him and she couldn't allow it.

Handing Shepard over to Cerberus was another matter altogether—one she hadn't fully come to terms with. She knew the Reapers were coming and she rationalized that Commander Shepard was the galaxy's only hope at winning. Cerberus could bring him back. It was the only answer. That may have been true. But the truth for Liara was much simpler. She just couldn't let him go.

Tali sensed Liara's hesitation and could perceive the inner turmoil. She spoke up. "Liara and I could analyze the signal's frequency… every transmission has a line of bearing that leads back to the point of origin."

Liara blinked repeatedly as the sound of Tali's voice entered the confines of her mind. She shook her head like a person shaking off a slap. She was suddenly back in the room with her crew and she immediately knew where Tali was going with her idea.

"Yes of course, it's an unencrypted signal and they didn't use a QEC which means we can trace the signal to its origin," she exclaimed excitedly, but paused for a moment as the idea developed in her head. "But without additional intercepts we won't be able to narrow down the location of the source. It's far from precise."

"It's okay, Liara, I think we're accustomed to less than perfect," Garrus assured the asari.

Vega looked confused. The techno-babble was over his head. He had gone through communications classes, done courses on field-expedient antenna construction and ground wave radio propagation, but this sort of thing was far beyond him. They were talking about tracing a signal back to its point of origin across time and space. He stayed quiet for a few moments speaking up. "Okay, that's something. Let's do that."

"I'll get right on it," Liara declared with resolve. She turned around and stalked off toward her cabin.

"I'll help," Tali sang enthusiastically as she shuffled off in Liara's wake.

"Liara, wait," Garrus interjected. The asari stopped as Garrus glided across the deck to address her. There was a weightiness in each step. He was ill at ease. "I'm sorry we couldn't get him back. But we did get this." He held out Shepard's ID tags.

A glimmer of sorrow shimmered in the asari's eyes as she examined the tags. She was quiet. Then she forced a heartfelt smile. She could remember the sensation of the cool metal upon her naked flesh when Shepard kissed her during those lovely overnight stays in his cabin. "Thank you, Garrus." He dipped the tags into her open palm and her fingers curled around them. With the tags clutched tightly in her grip she turned around and continued to her quarters.

The door to Liara's compartment hissed shut and the asari scientist immediately turned to the task at hand. "Glyph," she greeted the data-processing VI as she entered.

"Dr. T'Soni," the VI welcomed in kind. The whitish-blue incandescence of its form shimmered brightly in the dimly lit quarters that still served as the Shadow Broker's command center.

"I want you to analyze the line of bearing intercepted off the suspicious transmission you and Tali discovered and identify any systems near the point of origin that might be of interest," Liara explained with the calm, calculating tone of the Shadow Broker. There was an objective now. She had a lead and she would pursue it relentlessly.

In the dark recesses of her mind an idea took form. It wasn't the kind of idea that formed in the mind of an innocent archaeologist. It was an idea more suitable for a Shadow Broker. It was an idea that she savored, despite its cruel nature. Whomever had taken John Shepard from her deserved no less.

"Dr. T'Soni, without additional cuts to narrow down the point of origin any analysis will be grossly inaccurate," Glphy responded mechanically. Cuts were additional lines of bearing from extra transmissions. The more someone transmitted the more cuts they created. The intersection of those cuts created a fix. The point of origin.

"Just do it, Glyph," Liara ordered in a tone that would brook no further discussion on the matter.

"We could set the Normandy's communications intercept suite to monitor the frequency the scavengers used earlier. Since they were operating on an unencrypted channel maybe we'll get lucky and they'll use it again and narrow down the search for us," Tali offered helpfully.

Tali felt slightly unnerved as she watched the asari scientist work feverishly at her bank of consoles. Her features were cast in sinister shadows by the light that emanated from the many monitors.

She wondered for a moment if she would act in the same manner had the man she loved ever been taken from her. She supposed that she would, then breathed a sigh of relief and thanked her ancestors that _he_ was still alive and well.

"That's an excellent idea, Tali," Liara commended the quarian. "Glyph, tune the Normandy's intercept suite to the frequencies used by our friends and monitor the channel for any additional transmissions. Nothing else matters."

"As you wish, Dr. T'Soni."


	3. Chapter 3

The Normandy soared through the darkening depths of space at faster-than-light speed, but without a specific destination it was simply heading away from the Sol system on a general direction of travel where the mysterious radio signal had originated from. They still had no location, but couldn't waste time waiting. Without the mass relays it would take days or even weeks to reach the point of origin once it was discovered.

The mass relays had been like arteries for galactic trade and civilization. Everything from military vessels to civilian transports and merchant ships transited through those veins like corpuscles carrying oxygen to the brain. But they were no longer an option, at least for now. Whatever Commander Shepard had done aboard the Citadel had not only destroyed the Reaper menace, but it had also severely damaged every mass relay in the entire galaxy. The end state of this meant that travel from system to system happened at a snail's pace—at least in relative terms.

Flight Lieutenant Jeff "Joker" Moreau, the Normandy's competent and cocky pilot, thought of how odd the whole notion was. He was rocketing through space at immense speeds via conventional FTL thanks to the Normandy's powerful mass effect fields, but the pace was nothing compared to the instantaneous travel the mass relays afforded.

He suddenly felt silly for taking the monolithic technology for granted for so long. As much as he loved to fly, long trips through space could be maddening. His attention was drawn to the holographic haptic adaptive interface in front of him by a warning light indicator that began to blink at an increasingly rapid rate. There was venting from one of the lithium heat sinks, a common problem aboard the Normandy that was easily quelled.

"EDI, can you see about shutting down the valve to the number six…" he stopped abruptly, realizing he was talking to himself. He let out a sigh and took it upon himself to shut down the valve. It was a task that was often picked up by his co-pilot… EDI. _She_ was Cerberus' Enhanced Defense Intelligence, unshackled by Joker in an attempt to save the Normandy from a Collector incursion. She was the ship's AI, she was Joker's co-pilot—no she was so much more than that, but she was gone.

Jeff's mind wandered back to the moments after the catalyst had been triggered as he daringly whisked the Normandy away to rendezvous with the remainder of the Alliance fleet well away from the fallout of the Crucible firing. The exhilaration they all felt when reports started coming in had been intoxicating—the Reapers were succumbing to the blast. It had been their single greatest objective for years. And they had won. The Reapers were defeated.

Jeff embraced EDI for the first time unabashedly in the view of others in that moment- too overwhelmed with happiness and relief to care about being unseemly or strange. But the joy of victory turned sour fast. Within moments of the Normandy being engulfed in a cascade of red luminescence EDI suddenly became non-responsive. She uttered only his name before her physical form began to convulse. Then suddenly her body stopped shaking and she collapsed, taking Jeff with her as she fell.

He lay there motionless, too weak under the weight of her frame that lay upon him and too distraught to force her over so he could rise—or perhaps it was terror that gripped him—terror that held him there. He called to her, said her name again and again but she didn't respond. He pleaded, begged her to respond but the body was as vacant as it had been after Shepard and his team had recovered it on Mars. Desperately he called out to the portion of EDI that resided within the Normandy's mainframe; at least he could have that. It wasn't about her physical form for him—it was so much more. But there was no reply. EDI, the voice he had become so accustomed to, the voice that had comforted him in the silent hours of the night on the bridge when he was alone and most vulnerable, the voice that joked and teased him in only ways he could appreciate, the voice that had assured him he was the best pilot in the universe—was gone. And now he was alone.

"Joker?" A voice disturbed the memory, but Jeff was still floating in that horrible moment when the most important piece of his life ceased to exist. "Joker, are you okay?"

The skilled pilot blinked, suddenly remembering where he was. He was on the bridge, behind his flight controls and the memory was months and months past, but the pain it wrought was as fresh and raw as the moment it had happened. He suddenly felt the loneliness of space ensnare him like a hunter's trap as if he were a defenseless hare. Never before had he felt this way. Space was a cosmic adventure, a place he could be more than the sickly kid with frolic syndrome. It was his arena to do extraordinary things in expensive ships. But no more.

"Joker?" Specialist Samantha Traynor, Normandy's communications specialist and dear friend stood just behind the Normandy's pilot. She had been there some time.

It hadn't taken her long to witness the turmoil Joker was suffering from. She knew something had been amiss from the moment EDI had ceased to exist. The loss of his father and his sister, something he learned about weeks later, had only confounded a severe change in how Joker acted. He was scarcely the sarcastic, lively pilot she'd come to know. That man had been replaced by a subdued, brooding individual that rarely spoke to others.

"Traynor, what's up?" Joker responded with attempted levity as his chair spun about so he could greet her.

"Just came to check up on you," Traynor said in her quaint British accent. It was an act she'd performed frequently of late, but he usually rebuffed her attempts at lengthy conversation. He seemed to prefer the solitary existence the cockpit offered without EDI.

"I'm golden," Joker assured her. "See?" An embellished smile appeared upon Joker's bearded visage. His eyes betrayed the internal pain he suffered, however.

Traynor crossed her arms, seemingly unconvinced by Joker's half-hearted attempt to avert suspicion. This was not the Joker she knew when she came aboard. She had often visited Joker and EDI in the cockpit when she had a break during her watch. Joker enjoyed hot chocolate and often chided others for drinking coffee. He always mentioned the dubious claim that coffee stunted your growth and then joked that a kid with frolic syndrome couldn't afford to stunt his growth by drinking coffee. When Traynor argued the point with him he told her to check the extranet and then reaffirmed his position by explaining how delicious his chosen beverage really was. Later, Traynor would bring him hot chocolate when she had the chance.

He always lavished her with praise regarding her technical skills, something he always said more 'kids these days should appreciate'. He made her feel welcome aboard the Normandy and seeing him with EDI—seeing how happy she made him—had warmed her heart. But she could see Jeff struggling now and she could relate. Despite her embarrassing comments regarding EDI's voice when she thought EDI was only a VI she had grown to consider the synthetic shipmate a true friend and loved to encourage her inquisitive nature. Traynor could feel her absence, but it must have been so much worse for Jeff.

"You know we haven't enjoyed a good cup of hot chocolate in a while," Traynor reminded him, trying to find common ground in a shared memory.

Joker's face contorted by the mention of it, as if it were a nail driven into his heart. Any memory from before EDI's loss seemed to be one that reminded him she was gone. "Yeah. Hot chocolate is for kids," he said bluntly with a dismissive wave of his hand.

There were bittersweet memories of cups he'd shared with his sister on Tiptree, long before he'd ever dreamed of being a pilot.

Traynor leveled caring eyes upon him. She took a seat beside him, leaning against a nearby console. "Jeff, I don't want you to shut me out. I'm your friend."

The pilot let out an exasperated sigh and let his head roll back. His eyes fixated on the control panels above and the stars beyond. Then he turned to face Traynor and felt two of his soft fingertips pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I just… I miss her _so_ much."

"You don't have to apologize, Jeff. Not for that. Never for that," Traynor comforted him, trying to sound motherly.

"I know it's just… I feel… strange you know? She was an artificial intelligence… she wasn't… _real_," he muttered lowly, trying put some order to his thoughts. He just wanted the pain in his heart to stop.

"She was real, Jeff, you know that. She was so much more than an AI. To you—to all of us," Traynor reminded him softly. "Don't do that to her, Jeff. She deserves to be enshrined in your heart and in your thoughts. She deserves to be remembered for _who_ she was, not _what_."

Jeff sighed once again and massaged the bridge of his nose. He sniffed the recycled air aboard the Normandy and stifled a lump forming in his throat. "I've never felt like this before," he admitted, looking up at Traynor. She could see his eyes shimmering even in the low light present on the bridge. He had lost so much, more than just EDI or his Commander. "It just hurts so much."

Traynor leaned forward and offered a warm, loving hand upon his shoulder. She could feel the tension in his body as she consoled him with her touch. "I know, Jeff. She deserves to be mourned, but you can't go internal. You can't forget you still have friends on this ship."

She heard another breath of air escape his trembling lips and could see the pained expression upon his face. After a few moments a single tear drop rolled down the side of his cheek, only to get lost in the whiskers that populated his jaw. Then more tears came. Tears he had stowed away in the weeks following EDI's demise. Tears he had not allowed himself to shed because he labored fiercely to get the Normandy airborne once again, tears that he had fought back and obscured even further when he learned his father and sister and never made it off Tiptree—because he still had a mission and his Commander needed him.


	4. Chapter 4

Vega hovered over the weapons maintenance table on the hangar deck of the Normandy. He used an all-purpose brush soaked in a cleaning lubricant to feverishly scrub a handful of different weapons scattered before him. There wasn't much Vega did to pass the time or relieve stress. He had only a few hobbies; working out, hitting the heavy bag, drinking, playing cards and performing weapons maintenance. This was where he could find serenity, a place he could arrange his thoughts and forget the woes that populated his life—which were overwhelming.

He'd been at it for over an hour now and if it were possible to wear away the durable material the weapons had been constructed out of he'd have succeeded. The weapons were clean. They had been clean for weeks because using them had not been necessary. But Vega was there scrubbing away nearly every day.

He put the Carnifex he'd been toiling at down and let out a sigh which echoed in the cavernous, empty interior of the Normandy's hangar. There was no Steve Cortez to banter back and forth with. No side conversations and laughter erupting from other crew members. It was just a hollow place he'd once felt so at home in.

What was the Normandy now without Commander Shepard? He had been the lynchpin that brought an eclectic mix of humans and aliens together under a shared banner, unified them behind a single cause that he was driven to achieve. But now he was gone and only some of the crew remained. Kaidan Alenko had been called upon by the Citadel Council to fulfill his duties as a Spectre. Instability, political intrigue and violence had already begun to appear across battered systems throughout the galaxy and he was bound to do what he could to maintain order in a shattered post-Reaper existence. Javik had returned to the Cronian Nebula, where he had slain his indoctrinated crew, stating he wished to join them in the afterlife. And then there was EDI—EDI whose freshly realized life was extinguished all too soon for reasons none of them could understand. All that remained were Garrus, Liara, Tali, Samantha, Joker and a handful of the Normandy's crew. They were leaderless and the ship seemed empty of the energy that had characterized life aboard the vessel.

"Lieutenant Vega?" Samantha Traynor's voice interrupted his thoughts. She was speaking over the intercom from the CIC. "Admiral Hackett is on the QEC and would like a word."

Vega scratched the back of his head feeling slightly bemused. "I'll be right up."

The ever-familiar vision of Admiral Steven Hackett materialized before James Vega's very eyes, cloaked in a sheath of whitish-blue hue thanks to the quantum entanglement communicator. The Admiral stood before the young Lieutenant clad in his Alliance service uniform, his face scarred and weathered, old and weary. Yet he still stood erect with practiced military rigidity. The monumentally challenging task of picking up the pieces of a devastated galaxy had fallen in his lap and he was making due as best he could. And though his eyes may have betrayed his fatigue to the young Marine, his bearing would not. "Lieutenant Vega," the seasoned Admiral greeted.

"Sir."

"How did your visit to the Citadel go? Did you find Shepard?" Hackett asked evenly.

Vega dropped his head, abashed. "No," he admitted plainly. He had failed; something he felt was an ever-increasing reality of his chosen profession. Failure had populated the landscape of his life thus far. "We found his service tags, but he wasn't there."

Hackett looked puzzled. An aged hand reached up and stroked the hairs of his goatee. "Any ideas on what may have happened?"

"We intercepted a comm-signal. We think scavengers might have found him," Vega explained.

"I don't like the sound of that, Lieutenant," Hackett stated, although his voice betrayed no change in emotion.

"Neither do I, sir. He deserves better than that," Vega proclaimed icily. If there was one thing the Marines had drilled into him, something that his time with Delta Squad had reinforced, it was that you never left a comrade behind. The sad reality of that lofty goal was that many of the dead were often left to rot. Vega had learned as much on Fehl Prime, where so many of his compatriots had been slain fighting the Collectors and their abominations. As time passed he learned the glamorous ideals and noble undertakings the vids often showed were just pipedreams. Shepard's body was in the hands of some disdainful band of scavengers now and Vega had been powerless to stop that. Commander Shepard had beaten the Reapers. The greatest hero in the history of the universe deserved to be laid to rest and Vega couldn't even do that.

"Then find him, Lieutenant."

"Sir?"

"You have command of the Normandy for the time being. Commander Shepard was more than just a hero for humanity. He united bitter enemies, brought together the most powerful fleet in history and destroyed the Reapers once and for all. His actions saved the entire galaxy. He deserves the highest honors and a military burial. I aim to give it to him, but you need to find him first," Hackett declared eloquently. He meant every word he spoke. He had already presided over far more military burials than he cared to remember and there were many more to come. But Shepard's was the single-most important sacrifice in the galaxy. It was hard to quantify one person's sacrifice over another's, especially when it was the ultimate sacrifice. But if it wasn't for Shepard it was likely the entire galaxy would still be fighting a desperate, losing war against the Reapers.

"I'm just not sure having me in charge is the best course of action, sir," Vega said sheepishly.

"Why not?"

"I'm not… I'm just not sure if I'm cut out for command, sir."

"You're the ranking officer aboard the Normandy, Lieutenant. I don't have any officers to spare. I can't put an alien in command of an Alliance ship and you and the crew share the greatest kind of cohesion—the kind only gained from saving the galaxy," Hackett argued. The old warhorse was very familiar with Lieutenant James Vega and his reluctance to take charge. His experiences on Fehl Prime had affected him deeply. His confidence was shaken. But Hackett knew a good Marine when he saw one and he understood that more often than not the greatest thing that could hinder a good leader was the individual and their own misgivings. If James Vega could learn to get out of his own way he could be something great.

"Commander Shepard—"

"Commander Shepard thought very highly of you, Lieutenant. He said as much in his dispatches," Hackett interrupted. "I'll tolerate no further discussion of the issue, Lieutenant. You're in command."

"I… yes, sir. Aye, aye, sir."

"I wish we could provide you with more assistance, but things are a mess right now. Earth and the Citadel are in horrible disrepair, there are tens of thousands wounded and even more refugees. We're trying to locate and account for the dead and missing.

"We've managed to cobble together a few small fleets and dispatch them to distant colonies in order to protect them from mercenaries, pirates and slavers and we're laboring to get communications back online with the other council races' home planets," Admiral Hackett explained. Vega could almost sense the exasperation in his voice. The preceding weeks had been an immense trial for him, the labor he committed during the war notwithstanding. "Worse than that there are rumblings that what remains of the batarian Hegemony might be massing for an attack. Relations soured quickly and just about their entire fleet left the battle against the Reapers at the most dire moment. They've completely disappeared. We may have rid ourselves of the Reapers, but I'm afraid things are looking grim."

Vega listened to the avalanche of bad news and realized he had been right to think there would be a time when he'd need his weapon once again.

All the races of the galaxy had united and then survived against the greatest threat to life any of them had ever known. And now that the threat was gone the galaxy was already prepared to tear itself a part. Slavers? Pirates? It was hard to imagine there were people out there so willing and ready to take advantage of the fallout from the Reaper war. But maybe Vega shouldn't have been that surprised. After all, he had every reason to believe that opportunists had seized Shepard's remains.

But he was going to get Shepard back. He suddenly felt a surge of confidence that had been lacking moments before. "Don't worry, sir, we'll get the Commander back."

"Good. I expect nothing less. Hackett out." And just like that he was gone and Vega was left alone in the QEC chamber. Only the gentle purr of the Normandy's powerful engines could be heard reverberating through the bulkheads. He stepped out into the war room. The circular room was littered with an assortment of various consoles that controlled and coordinated logistics, administration and supply systems so that war could be waged from this very spot. The concentric center console, where unit readiness and assets could be viewed and evaluated sat unused.

It was vacant. Not a single service member manned a station. There was no galactic war now and no need to manage war assets across the full spectrum of operations. Just like much of the ship, it was empty and damaged to a degree. The systems within were of little value now and had therefore received the lowest priority for repair.

Was it his war room now? Was it his ship? No. It never could be. He was a placeholder. It was Commander Shepard's ship and it always would be. Even when the Alliance eventually appointed an appropriately ranked officer to command the Normandy it would always be considered Shepard's ship.

The entrance to the war room slid open and the hiss of the automatic doors drew Vega's attention. He looked over to see Samantha Traynor enter. "Lieutenant Vega," she greeted with a hospitable grin.

"Traynor."

"Should I be congratulating you?" she asked playfully.

"You were listening?" Vega questioned interestedly.

"Sorry, curiosity got the better of me." She clasped her hands innocently behind her back and rocked back and forth on her heels and toes.

"Well, I don't know that congratulations are in order," Vega admitted, glancing down at the calloused palms of his bear-like paws. He turned his back to the war assets console and leaned against it. He crossed his thickly muscled arms and shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Look at this place," he told her. "This ship doesn't belong to me. This is the Commander's ship. It always will be. I mean… how can I follow after a man like that? How can I replace Shepard?"

"I don't think the point is to replace him, James," Traynor offered. "I think the point is to give this crew someone to follow. We have a mission, but we need a leader."

"I don't think that's me. Don't get me wrong, I believe in the mission and I want to succeed, but the last time I was in charge… well, a lot of people paid a heavy price," Vega lamented.

"Leaders are burdened by hard choices. Making them, being decisive, it's the most important part of being a leader. You have to live with the consequences. But it doesn't change the fact that this crew needs a good leader," Samantha asserted. "I may not have known Commander Shepard very long, but in the time I did I saw that he didn't shy away from the hard choices—even though they weighed heavily on him. He accepted responsibility, he was accountable for the choices he made, and he carried the burden of command well. Now it's your turn, James. I think you'll make the Commander very proud."

James scoffed lightly. "We'll see," he muttered.

But he wasn't so sure.


	5. Chapter 5

From behind the colored veil created by the mask on Tali's enviro-suit the stars took on a more romantic appearance. Or perhaps the young quarian machinist was just being silly, having watched a few too many episodes of Fleet and Flotilla. Still, the sight of the stars had an inextricable power to seize her breath and send her imagination running wildly off into the celestial clouds of quasars and nebulas beyond.

She spent much of her time between the starboard observation deck and the engineering room. She loved the contrast of the two places. The mechanical drone of the Normandy's Tantalus drive core as it labored to rocket the Normandy through space, the intricate tinkering her and the other engineers did to squeeze what power they could from the ship's systems to increase the core's output and improve other functions, and the racket of status alarms and notifications always reminded her of the love she had for ships. But the quiet solitude she found in the observation deck and the glittering, distant stars beyond always populated her imagination with ideas of what else might be out there. Despite everything the galactic population knew about the Milky Way, there was still so much left to discover.

When it was late and most of the crew slumbered Tali often found herself here where she could contemplate her thoughts and reflect on her experiences.

The doors to the deck slid open and Tali turned to see the turian, Garrus Vakarian, step inside. She felt her chest flitter as thoughts of their momentary embrace before the mission against the Cerberus base surfaced in her mind. He walked in, seemingly at ease. They hadn't spoke of the days leading up to the assault on the Illusive Man's last bastion of safety.

"Garrus," she stammered, as the taller alien arrived beside her. His eyes fixated on the same cosmic sights that had entranced her.

"Tali," he greeted as he gazed into space beyond, drinking in the vivid, swirling colors of a pulsar thousands of light-years away. "I thought I might find you here."

"You have… something you wanted to say?" she asked. She kept her eyes locked on the observation porthole, too timid to glance over at Garrus.

Their moment in the main battery had been spontaneous, unexpected and fleeting. It was the culmination of spur-of-the-moment flirting along with shared moments when one of them would not-so-accidentally brush up against the other in passing.

When Garrus admitted how he'd felt and stepped forward she was quick to embrace him but unsure how to proceed. Then Shepard walked in and the both of them had made a joke of it. But it wasn't a joke to her and the thought of walking into that hellish battle on Earth frightened her more than she could imagine. For a time she couldn't understand why. She'd survived so many hard fought battles and narrowly escaped death countless times, but then she felt oddly apprehensive, more so than ever before.

After a time she realized it was because of her feelings for Garrus and his own admission that he cared about her. She was worried because she wanted to survive to explore the revelation that someone might love her more deeply than a friend could. She was apprehensive because Garrus didn't shy away from danger and was quick to volunteer himself to personally wade into combat beside Shepard… and she wanted him to live.

"Well," he paused for a moment. "I wanted to say… good job." The words fumbled out of his mouth and were delivered awkwardly. He was brave and often charming, but could seldom find the right words for a girl he liked when it counted most.

"Good job?" she questioned, hoping for more.

"On the uh… the radio signal thing. Very good detective work," Garrus managed to say. If turians' faces could redden his certainly would. He scratched the back of his head nervously. "Definitely outdid this C-Sec officer's sleuthing skills."

"Thank you, Garrus," she chirped with some semblance of joy. Then an awkward silence followed.

"Guh, well I suppose it's not too difficult. I wasn't a very good C-Sec officer, after all," he blurted suddenly, abhorring the silence then cursing himself for breaking it.

"Oh…"

"It's a nice view," he muttered sheepishly, trying to save himself from his own bashfulness.

"Yes," Tali murmured. "It's nice to look upon the stars and know there aren't Reapers lurking in the dark."

"Thanks to Shepard," Garrus offered.

"I think he would agree it was thanks to all of us," Tali replied buoyantly. Shepard was amazing. He was the focal point of their drive toward success against the threat of the Reapers. Garrus and Tali knew that all too well- having been there from the start. But Shepard was keen to remind them how important they all were to the mission and more often than not remarked on how impossible the undertaking would have been without them.

"You're right," Garrus agreed. "I would have given my life for this crew and the Commander. He… he was my best friend." The words tumbled from Garrus' lips awkwardly. The title seemed haplessly childish or immature. _My best friend?_ Did battle-hardened warriors have such things? But it was true. He'd have done anything for Shepard; shared any danger, fought any battle.

And yet they shared only a handful of memories that didn't involve them risking their lives. Garrus' victory as king of the bottle-shooters was chief among them—although it was very likely Shepard had allowed him that small victory. The thought of such a driven man allowing Garrus a tiny victory was enough to make the turian smile.

"I'm glad you didn't have to," Tali said sweetly. She looked over at Garrus for the first time. "There's been enough death."

"Me too," Garrus stated mildly. "I guess it's time to rebuild." It was a simple statement for an overwhelmingly complex problem.

"Speaking of that, why didn't you return to Palaven to help the reconstruction efforts there?" Tali inquired.

Palaven, like Earth, was in ruins. Cities had been bombarded, hundreds of thousands were dead, and what remained of the turian forces were in disarray. Those that had survived the holocaust on Palaven had scarcely been heard of since the Crucible was fired. No one knew just how extensive the damage was, but thousands of turians immediately began the arduous journey back to their home world to see what horrors had been inflicted by the Reapers.

Garrus had never considered leaving. Not even for a moment.

"I've never really been very good at fixing things," Garrus exclaimed. "And I owe Shepard."

He glanced over at Tali for the first time since entering the observation deck and realized she was already gazing upon his scarred visage.

His small, blue eyes gleamed in the low light of the room. He could seem so grim when he wanted to, but there was a magnetism to him; a comeliness that Tali saw in the quiet moments when he seemed at ease. His facial scarring was a reminder of his habit of putting himself in the line of fire. It was a mark of his courage and now the sight of them stirred something inside Tali. They were silent for a moment as they merely looked at one another.

"I could ask you the same question," Garrus began finally. "Why didn't you leave with the Migrant Fleet?"

Every quarian ship had departed with the fleet after the battle with the Reapers had been won and repairs to their ships had been made. They were headed for Rannoch—the monumental task of resettling their home-world was chief among their agenda.

The quarians had reconciled with the geth and their synthetic creations had pledged their support and assistance with the quarian transition back to Rannoch. But the geth were gone now. They had succumbed to the same strange fate that had taken EDI from them. But that wasn't going to stop the quarians from calling Rannoch home again.

"Without the mass relays it's going to take a long time to reach Rannoch," she murmured solemnly, turning her eyes back to the vast expanse of space. "And I owe Shepard too. Besides, I've never felt more at home than here, on this ship."

"Yeah," Garrus said lightly. "I agree."

Quiet returned to the cabin once again as the two of them gazed beyond the shimmering blue-shifted refraction of light caused by the Normandy's FTL travel. The entire universe was theirs to behold; from the pulsars they had seen before to the accretion discs of black holes and the gamma ray bursts they looked at now. It was mesmerizing to behold—a cosmic flurry of colors and patterns awash in the middle of a vast span of black ink that stretched on infinitely.

Then, suddenly, Tali could feel Garrus' fingers delicately intertwine with her own. Startled, she looked in his direction and met his gaze.

"For what it's worth, Tali, I'm glad you're still here," he told her softly.

She felt a giddiness rise inside her and thought about repressing it. After a moment she decided against it. She let the emotions wash over her. She needed that powerful feeling bubbling within her because the very nature of her physiology excluded her from such things as touch or smell. At this moment she could not feel his skin against her own, nor could she experience his breath upon her as he pulled her tightly against his body. But her heart raced and she could feel droplets of sweat form upon her brow. She was excited. She was nervous. She was happy.

"I wouldn't trade it for any other place in the universe," she muttered. She felt his arm wrap around her waist and she was suddenly tucked snugly within his embrace. She didn't mind the feeling of his bulky armor against her form, or the fact that she couldn't truly feel the sensation of his touch. The moment and the feelings that flooded over her was enough. No more words were said between them. Instead they lost themselves in the moment just as they had done so many months before the final battle that took their leader's life. The seemingly insurmountable yearning was released now and Tali sighed. Was this really happening? Was she living a life like the ones she watched on her favorite vid?

She could only be so lucky.


	6. Chapter 6

Jacob Taylor, former Alliance Marine and ex-Cerberus operative, stood shirtless before the mirror in his bathroom flexing his stomach over and over again. His face muddled into a scowl with each effort he made and the sigh that escaped his lips was overheard by his fiancé and mother-to-be, Dr. Brynn Cole.

"What are you doing, Jacob?" she asked happily as she swept in from the bedroom beyond. She was dressed in a lavish, bright summer dress and looked positively lovely. She was putting on an earring as she entered.

"Trying to find my abs," Jacob professed. "I think all this inaction has made me soft." He slapped his still firm belly. The former Marine was in peak physical condition, although he may not have been at the same level he enjoyed while aboard the Normandy. He turned to face the love of his life and beamed at the sight of her stomach, bulging with the life of their unborn child.

"That's just nonsense," she scolded. She leaned over and gave Jacob a peck on the cheek. "Now get dressed. Some of our guests are already arriving."

"You really think we can do this?" Jacob asked, suddenly sounding very serious.

"Do what? It's just a baby shower," Brynn replied with a chuckle.

"No. I mean—live a normal life. I don't think either of us knows what that is," he explained with a frown. It might have been true. Jacob had spent his entire life in service to some organization or another. If it wasn't the Marines or the Corsairs then it was Cerberus. Even when he left the Illusive Man's cadre he'd pledged himself to protect like-minded defectors. Conflict had been almost a constant in his life since he turned eighteen.

"I suppose we'll have to learn together then," Brynn replied smoothly. She finished putting on her other earring. Her words were always calming. It was her temperament that balanced Jacob out—her ability to reassure him of the future. He was supposed to be the protector, but sometimes he felt she was the one doing all the saving. "Now get dressed, Marine!"

Jacob smiled in the wake of Brynn's exit. That was something he did a lot more of these days. And he had every reason to.

He threw on a t-shirt and stepped into the bedroom he and Brynn shared. Decorating it was a pet project of hers and it was rich and vivid with white colors from the massive bed to the immaculate carpet and lavish mahogany furniture pieces. Grand windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling looked out upon an amazing view of sandy white beaches and an oceanic expanse that stretched on to the horizon. The curtains fluttered in the breeze as the smell of salt and sea wafted in- invigorating Jacob. He could hear the call of gulls well beyond the confines of his house and took a moment to reflect on a life that seemed close to perfection. It had only been six months since the Reapers were defeated. Much of the world was still in ruin, but he had somehow found happiness.

The war was over. The struggle had ended. And now he had the opportunity to build the perfect life with a woman he loved deeply.

Brynn and Jacob had maintained nominal contact with their fellow ex-Cerberus contacts, many of whom they'd invited to today's festivities. Aside from Jacob's former comrades-in-arms they didn't have much in the way of friends. But now the two of them were laboring to rebuild the shattered community they had adopted as their home. Though much of it lay in disarray, a dedicated collection of carpenters, plumbers, electricians and gracious helpers were rebuilding people's homes and shops one by one.

To that end Brynn and Jacob had pitched in and as time passed they had ingratiated themselves more and more with the locals. Of course none of them knew the true nature of their past. Cerberus was well-known to even the most rural town-dwellers on Earth. Their crimes at Sanctuary on Eden Prime had been well publicized and the organization had been painted as the most prominent terrorist organization in the 22nd century. To the average person there was no gray area regarding Cerberus. It was an evil organization and every member deserved a speedy trial and an even speedier execution.

Tales of the Illusive Man's indoctrination were rampant. What remained of the media today often broadcast stories that speculated on who the Illusive Man really was. No one could really say with any certainty where he'd come from or who he was, but one thing everyone agreed on… he was a monster. Jacob decided it was best he and Brynn keep their Cerberus affiliation a secret. To their neighbors Brynn was a researcher that had done contract work for the Alliance and Jacob was a former Marine that helped with the war effort off-world. No one seemed to question them further. Everyone was simply happy the war was over and anxious to move on with their lives.

None of that really mattered anyway. That life was behind them both and only a bright future lay ahead.

Like a bad nightmare the alarming staccato of gunfire echoed jarringly from somewhere inside his home.

Jacob froze for only a moment. His training kicked in almost immediately. He shook off the momentary lapse and sought out the location. With stealthy urgency he made his way toward the source in order to learn what had happened. _What in the world is going on?_

He crept down the hallway of the newly purchased home, his footsteps silent as they fell upon the thick gray carpet. He heard the muffled sounds of voices not far ahead—well below where he was now. They sounded angry, demanding something that no one was coming forward with.

The lengthy hallway opened up to a bannister that looked down into the living room below. It was a feature Brynn had loved about the house. Now Jacob would be using for a little recon.

He edged closer to the corner of the wall and then peaked down below into the rectangular confines of his living room. There were half a dozen armed men in heavy and medium armor types milling around his sofas. They carried mil-spec weapons, but wore no military designation that Jacob could recognize. His face contorted into a glower as more demands erupted from the intruders. They had corralled most of the guests that had arrived for the baby shower.

Jacob quietly trotted back toward his bedroom and made his way to a locked safe in the closet. After punching a few numbers on the keypad the safe's lock popped and Jacob eased open the door. Inside an M-5 Phalanx heavy pistol sat idly. Jacob reached in to grab hold and just as his fingers wrapped around the grip he felt an ominous twitch in the base of his spine, as if he could _feel_ a gun being leveled on him.

"Not so fast handsome," a female said through the muffled, mechanical sound of a breather mask. "Slowly release the weapon and back away from the safe."

Jacob grit his teeth in frustration, but did as he was commanded.

"Put your hands up," the voice ordered. "And turn around."

Again Jacob acquiesced to the demand. He turned to see the feminine contour of an operative in sleek, black armor. Her face was hidden behind the mask, eyes illuminated in an eerie blue light—a common design feature on many armor types.

"What have you got there?" she asked teasingly. Jacob stepped aside and the woman moved to retrieve the pistol. "Heavily modified M-5 Phalanx custom. I like it. Think I'll keep it." She placed the handgun on her hip while keeping her M-25 Hornet submachine gun oriented on Jacob. His initial urge was to resist, but then he remembered he wasn't wearing armor and had no kinetic barriers to protect him from her mass accelerated slugs.

"Who are you?" he seethed.

"That's not something you need to concern yourself with. We're here for someone and when we find him we'll be out of your hair. So just stay calm and don't try to be a hero. I know you pulled some wild shit with that Commander Shepard guy, but I'm telling you, if you try any of that now a lot of innocent people are going to get hurt. Understand?" The woman's voice was unwavering. It was clear she was a professional.

"Yeah, got it."

"Good, then get downstairs with the others."

Jacob was lined up beside all of his house guests down in the living room. Several of the similarly equipped intruders were lurking nearby, but a trio of men guarded the group closely. They were especially watchful of Jacob- well aware of his history and experience.

"Listen up people," a man spoke up in what sounded like an Australian accent. "I'm not here to cause you any trouble, but trouble is what you'll get if I don't get what I want." His face was hidden behind a variation of the popular Death Mask helmet worn by many Alliance Special Operators. Jacob noticed an emblem etched onto the right side of the chest plate on his armor. It was a skull and from its flanks great wings sprouted open as if an angel were taking flight.

The man paced up and down the line of captured guests. He surveyed each of them with what appeared to be careful suspicion. "I want to know where Dr. Gavin Archer is."

_Gavin Archer? What did he want with Archer?_ Jacob's eyes narrowed on the man, who appeared to be the leader of the little troop. He wondered if Archer had arrived yet. He hadn't seen any of the guests come in and he wasn't about to look down the line and potentially betray where the doctor was.

"Anyone?" the armored man questioned to no one in particular. "No takers, eh? We are a quiet bunch, yes? I expect as much from Cerberus types. Can't imagine you'd do well with a group like that if you couldn't keep your mouth shut. Still, you're only hurting each other by staying quiet."

Lazily, the man wrenched his M-77 Paladin from its place on his hip. The pistol ratcheted out to its full potential. He casually leveled it on a target and a single heavy shot rang out. The guests cowered and Jacob whirled around to see that the armored trooper had executed one of the guests—a female scientist name Cary—a woman Jacob had personally helped save. Her body crumpled into a limp mass as the life evaporated from her body. The wall behind where she stood had been painted with her blood and brain matter.

Some of the guests were sobbing.

In that moment Jacob's anger flared and unconsciously his hand curled into a fist. A vapor-like purple haze erupted from his hand as he attempted to yank the man toward him with a hasty biotic pull.

The man was shielded and the attack only caused him to stumble a few steps. Jacob felt the butt stock of a rifle crack him across the back of the head. He fell to the floor but caught himself somewhat with braced hands. The initial attack was followed up by several swift kicks to his midsection. He let out a hoarse cry and curled up in defense from any further blows. There were a myriad of kicks and strikes. Jacob closed his eyes tightly.

Brynn stepped forward calling out. "Stop it! Leave him be!"

A swift backhand from the armored female that captured Jacob silenced her protests.

"Now, now," the Australian man spoke up. "This is hardly what I wanted. I _really_ abhor violence. So I'll ask again—where is Dr. Gavin Archer?"

Silence hung over the assembled group. The armed men and women glanced from face to face, studying each individual intently. Only the sound of Jacob coughing could be heard.

"How many times will I have to ask?" The M-77 Paladin's barrel fixated on another target.

Dr. Brynn Cole recoiled with a gasp at the sight of barrel pointed her way. Her hands instinctively grasped at her womb in an impossible attempt to shield her unborn child. "Please…"

"Here! Here damn you!" A normally cultured voice called out in a frenzied tone. Dr. Gavin Archer, the brilliant synthetic intelligence expert, stepped forward. "I'm right here. Please, don't hurt her. Don't hurt anyone else."

"That wasn't so hard was it?" the troop leader asked wryly. "If you'd only had a crisis of conscience moments before maybe you could have saved her." He gestured to Cary's limp corpse.

"Take him." Gun thugs nearby seized Dr. Archer and headed out of the house.

"Pick up in five," the female told the leader. Her hand was curled into a fist and her suit's menacing blue eyes gazed at Brynn.

"Good," he acknowledged and then addressed the crowd. "Now that we have what we came for we'll get out of your hair. Enjoy the rest of your party." He rendered a lavish, theatrical bow and made his way for the exit.

Two of the troops watched the array of guests like hawks as the others left. Once the main group had gone the remaining sentinels also withdrew. The living room—and house—were now empty of any armed threats. Frantic chatter immediately began between the assembled civilians.

Brynn knelt beside Jacob and he felt the tender presence of her slender fingers upon his face. "Are you all right?" There was real concern in her voice as her eyes looked over him.

"Yeah," Jacob coughed. He sat up with some difficulty. "I'm good."

One guest- an old friend- lay dead and another had been kidnapped. But Jacob felt immense relief. Brynn was safe and so was his unborn baby. That feeling gave way to guilt, but he couldn't help but reassure his fiancée with a smile.

"Thank God," Brynn let out a heavy exhale. Their visitors stood in shock at what had transpired. Cary lay dead beside the sofa and no one knew what to say. "What did they want with Gavin?"

Jacob took a deep breath and winced at the pain he felt in his ribs. He clamored to his feet and made his way to Cary's lifeless body. He leaned down and saw that her eyes were still open. The appearance of shock on her face was sickening. He'd done his best to forget the more gruesome events of his past. He never relished the sight of the slain, be it friend or foe. He ran his hand across her face and closed her lids.

"I don't know… But I'm going to find out."


	7. Chapter 7

Parsing through terabytes of data, reading hacked correspondence and listening to communication intercepts was something Liara T'Soni was well-accustomed to. She'd spent countless hours toiling over the half a dozen intel-consoles that gathered and collated data and information that flowed in from her web of contacts spread out across the galaxy. After all, she was the Shadow Broker and there was still plenty of demand for her services. Yet that monumental responsibility was hardly at the forefront of her mind. She was focused now on finding John Shepard; an Alliance Marine and a man with an uncanny ability to risk it all and win. Almost.

He'd lost once against the Collectors and Liara had saved him. Cerberus brought him back from the brink and the goddess Athame had allowed her the tenderness of his caress and the exhilaration of his kiss once again. The Reapers had taken all of that away, however, and Liara had been living her days since then in a stormy cloud of dejection. The world was grayer and the future more grim for her- because she couldn't share it with him. There had been an immense joy that blossomed from her heart when she knew they had won, but as time passed and it became apparent that Shepard had died to give them victory that joy was replaced by a marginal feeling of relief mixed with bitterness. At least the galaxy could enjoy their hard fought victory. And perhaps someday the immeasurable pain and feeling of loss that seemed to consume her would fade. She certainly had enough years left in her life. But she doubted anything would change.

Now she sat indolently upon the firm mattress in her quarters skimming through reports she'd collected on profitable scavenging rings. It hadn't taken her long to crack the community where the business, its operators and its customers resided. She had found multiple web forums, addresses and net mail that allowed her an inside look into an industry whose size was startling. The demand for scrap materials, be it starship parts, weapon components, armor remnants or even building debris was vast. The Reaper war had left hundreds of thousands of people without homes or the necessary materials to rebuild what was destroyed. The governments of all races were still reeling and unable to cope with the immense amount of homeless, dispossessed and displaced. The destruction was so colossal- infrastructure so crippled- that people shouldered the burden themselves by purchasing what they could from those willing to go out and get what they needed. She felt slightly embarrassed after she realized that, in many cases, these scavengers and the goods they sold were the only things keeping some distant communities afloat. It was another lesson learned. Not everything was as terrible as it seemed on the surface. But they took Shepard. They took him from her. And there was no justification in the world that would be suitable enough for her.

"Dr. T'Soni," Glyph, the asari's automated virtual intelligence spoke up. The small, brightly lit orb drifted over to her. His speech had interrupted the song he played for her; the remnant of an old memory she and Shepard had shared in Admiral Anderson's apartment on the Citadel. "Another transmission has been broadcast using the frequency that you directed me to monitor."

It took a moment for Liara to process the information. She was so deeply submerged in the work she was doing. She blinked, and then wheeled around to address Glyph. "What? Trace the signal!"

"Specialist Traynor is currently in the process of analyzing and tracing the signal in order to determine the point of origin," Gylph explained robotically. The VI had some degree of inflection in its tone, as if its voice emulated sapient life to a tiny degree.

Liara didn't waste any time discussing it with the VI. She leapt from her bed and sprinted past the little drone. "Have a nice day," she heard him say cordially as she dashed out of her quarters and toward the elevator.

In the CIC she saw Traynor listening intently to the headset which piped the intercepted message into her ears. She was simultaneously typing furiously away at the glowing haptic display that bathed her in a warm luminescence. When the Normandy flew Systems Alliance colors the CIC's lighting was kept much dimmer than when she had been a Cerberus ship. Liara never really understood why, but at the moment she didn't care.

"Traynor," Liara blurted as she stepped out of the elevator. But the Specialist didn't hear her. She was too concerned with the task at hand. It was an admirable quality the young Alliance officer possessed, but her inability to multitask at times could be frustrating.

The CIC was a hive of activity, despite the Normandy's depleted crew complement. The tasks they performed were even more important since the loss of EDI. Sensors, communications, damage control, static build up in the drive core and so much more all had to be monitored and managed by the servicemen and women aboard the Normandy. EDI had been so proficient at the task the Normandy did not have the crew size normally allotted to a frigate of her size. They paid for that now in sweat. Sleepy-eyed Alliance sailors toiled behind controls, struggling to prevent themselves from nodding off. Their shift rotations were long and arduous and the respite that came when watch was over was far too short. But they soldiered on.

Liara was beside Specialist Traynor in a flash, but the hulking enormity of Lieutenant James Vega appeared suddenly from the war room. He strode up beside Liara—his excitement barely contained. He hardly seemed aware of his own bulk as he nearly bowled Liara over.

"Sorry, Doc," he apologized to the asari. "What have we got, Traynor?"

Perhaps it was because James Vega was a part of her chain of command, or maybe it was the command tone in which he questioned the young woman, but she answered him. "Just some chatter about their arrival. They said they've been having trouble with their core and might be a bit later than expected."

"Do we have a fix on where they're headed?" Vega asked. Any further inquiring was silenced as Specialist Traynor raised her hand as if to indicate she needed silence.

Liara and Vega stood like silent sentinels waiting for the Specialist to reply. She was fixated on what she was hearing in the headphones and Liara could tell Vega was getting impatient as he shifted his sizable weight from one foot to the other and then back again. His gaze was hard on Traynor as he edgily waited her response.

"Just their boss telling them to hurry up. They're telling him to keep his pants on and calm down. He's telling them not to tell him what to do… Just a second," she began. She punched a few commands into her console. Then her face lit up. "Got it. I've got a fix on the point of origin. It's coming from the Malgus system in the Eagle Nebula… coordinates match a planet called Wrill."

"You," Vega's voice boomed over the bustle of the CIC. A mousy looking female crewmember with short brown hair jumped at the sound as he was clearly addressing her. Vega regretted the bark, realizing he didn't remember her name. "What have you got on Wrill?"

The young crewmember worked hastily behind her console. Her nervous eyes glanced up Vega from time to time at the mountain that was Lieutenant Vega; as if she assumed he was an intolerant man by the way he carried himself. "Hot planet, thin toxic methane-ethane atmosphere. There are krogan and vorcha habitats all over the surface and gang warfare is prevalent," she explained tensely. She glanced back at the Lieutenant; curious to see if that was good enough.

"All right, thank you," Vega acknowledged with a nod. "I guess we know where we're headed. Joker, set a course for the Eagle Nebula—planet Wrill." Deep within he could feel his heart tighten like a knot and he wondered if Admiral Hackett had been right to put him in charge. He hadn't _led_ anyone. Not since Fehl Prime.

There was a moment of silence before the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom. "Uh… okay, you got it."

Later that evening Garrus made his way into the lounge, used by the Normandy crew for a bit of respite from the stresses of life aboard a warship, and was surprised to find James Vega seated alone at the poker table. The bulky Marine often spent his time on the Citadel in seedy joints in the lower wards or in the holding area near the docks.

Curious, Garrus made his way over to the table. The scarred Marine sat pensively shuffling cards and then dealt them out to no one in particular. He repeated the same motions over and over. Garrus found it odd. Beside the Marine he noticed a bottle of scotch. James had finished about half of it already.

"Everything okay, Vega?" Garrus queried lightly. He left the concern out of his voice. Vega was a warrior and more often than not warriors became introverts when people seemed overly concerned about their wellbeing. He wouldn't be willing to appear vulnerable.

"Fine, just collecting my thoughts I guess," Vega allowed as he dealt another few sets of cards. They flopped noiselessly onto the felt of the table and rested there only a moment before Vega corralled them in his big, calloused hands and shuffled them once more. "We're going to Wrill. We're going to get Commander Shepard back."

Garrus glanced behind him at the sealed door of the lounge. "Yeah, Joker told me," he began as he edged toward the table. When he drew closer he could see a datapad that had lost its charge sitting idly beside Vega. "What's that?"

"Intelligence and advisory reports on the planet," Vega informed him. He had combed through every piece of data on the planet, read the reports and committed them to memory and then read them again before it finally went dead. "Just doing some research."

"Learn anything?"

"Wrill is a haven for broods of angry, violent vorcha. They're all over the planet," Vega remarked unenergetically. That was an oversimplification, but it was suitable at the moment. It meant they were probably going to face some resistance once they touched down planet-side.

"Should make for a fun afternoon," Garrus joked, trying to sound positive.

"I just…" Vega trailed off. He glanced over at the half-drunk bottle. He scooped it up into his firm grip and took a lengthy pull of the stuff. His face contorted into a slight grimace as the fiery liquid coursed its way down his throat. He returned the bottle to its place on the table and continued to shuffle his cards. "I just want to do it right out there."

Garrus cranked up a brow. "What do you mean?"

The Marine set his deck of cards down and let out a sigh. Weary eyes, concerned eyes met with Garrus' own. "Admiral Hackett put me in charge," he explained worryingly.

"Ah, so that's why you're celebrating," Garrus mused as he gave a nod to the bottle of scotch.

Vega chortled. "I wouldn't call this a celebration."

"So congratulations aren't in order? What's the problem?" Garrus questioned. He crossed his lengthy arms and leaned against the ship's bulkhead, patiently awaiting Vega's response. He understood the Marine's hesitation to assume the mantle of leader and the responsibility that came with it. Garrus had his own experience with leadership on Omega and despite early success, things had not ended well for any of his subordinates. He was vaguely aware of James's history on Fehl Prime too.

"I'm worried," Vega admitted. "I'm not the Commander."

"No, you're not," Garrus acceded bluntly. "But that doesn't matter. You're a capable Marine, Vega. You know what you're doing. We'll get it done. Whatever it takes."

James cracked a slight smirk. Garrus' approval of his leadership meant a lot. But inwardly Vega knew he had to earn the turian's respect. Garrus was an adept soldier and well-accustomed to good leadership. Hell, he was more than capable as a leader himself. Now he was willingly making himself subordinate to Vega's command. Maybe he was doing it as a favor for Shepard, but James wanted to ensure he wasn't making a mistake by doing so. "Thanks, Scars."

"No problem," Garrus nodded. "You know I almost forgot we're out of the stuff I can safely enjoy." He pointed at the scotch. "I can't drink that swill and it wouldn't be fair if me and the other dextro on this boat didn't have any libations to enjoy. As the boss it's your job to keep me sated with every one of my needs and wants."

Vega chuckled and glad for the levity. "Every one, huh?"

"Well, maybe not every need or want, but at least enough to keep me comfortably drunk when I'm not on watch," he joked. He was sure Tali could help him out with any other needs or wants.

"I'll make a note of it. We'll see if the requisition officer can put in for some Ryncol the next time we're in port," Vega assured the turian with a toothy smile.

"Trying to get me killed already? We haven't even left the ship," Garrus shot back.

"C'mon, Scars, I thought you could handle your booze," Vega accused with an amused grunt.

"Whenever you want to go toe to talon with me, Vega… I'll drink you under the table," Garrus professed, motioning to the card table James was sitting at.

Vega smiled broadly. Vega was beginning to see him as more than just a skilled and competent soldier. He was a good friend. And he understood now why Shepard had so thoroughly trusted him. Being around Garrus made it hard to fathom how anyone could be distrustful of aliens. Vega's muscular frame rose from behind the card table. He capped the bottle of scotch. "I think I'm going to get some shuteye," he told the turian as he made his way toward the lounge's exit.

"Big comfy bed in your new quarters calling to you, eh?"

Vega stopped just past Garrus. "No way, amigo. That's the Commander's quarters. I'll stick to my cot down on the hangar deck." They were silent for a few moments before Vega stepped toward the exit once more.

Before Vega stepped out Garrus spoke up. "Whatever we get into down there, all you need to know is I'll be right behind you. And so will the rest of the team."

Vega stopped short once more and was silent again. And then said "I know Garrus… and thanks… for everything."

"Anytime."


	8. Chapter 8

Vancouver lay in ruins. The City of Glass had been transformed into the city of rubble. The great edifices that stood sentinel over Burrard Peninsula, symbols of the strength of the Systems Alliance and the longevity of the United North American States economic supremacy, now lay in ruinous shambles. The Reapers had exacted a terrible toll on the city. The landscape was transformed from thriving metropolis to shattered ruins—much like every other major city on Earth. The Reapers had focused on population centers to best facilitate their horrible harvesting campaign. Vancouver had suffered immensely.

But mankind was rebuilding. As a major hub for the Systems Alliance Vancouver was a priority for reconstruction. Thousands of hopeful workers and laborers poured in alongside surviving architects and designers hoping to make their mark on the history of a post-Reaper apocalypse. Cranes reached up into the sky attempting to rebuild what was lost. Their silhouettes across the skyline were eerily reminiscent of the hands of the tens of thousands of young children that reached out to volunteers at the many Red Cross organized food distribution centers hoping for some degree of nourishment. When the Reapers came transports for evacuation were limited and many put their children aboard the first few waves. Many children survived the exodus, but their parents did not. They descended on the city after the war was won, naively hoping to find their homes in one piece and perhaps their parents still alive.

Yet despite the morose scene of destruction there was a hopeful atmosphere that pervaded over much of what remained of the city. Merchants and peddlers set up market stalls in the bombed out ruins of major malls and shopping centers. Individual entrepreneurs were already sweeping out the debris of a city torn asunder and everyone made their own individual effort in trying to rebuild what was lost. There were lively celebrations and some adventurous young musicians that brought music to the streets with their instruments. All of it was an attempt to regain some sense of normalcy, some semblance of life before the Reapers. And it was working.

The Systems Alliance had concentrated much of its resources back in Vancouver as it attempted to re-establish one of its major information fusion centers to conduct global search and rescue, humanitarian and reconstruction operations. The focus would be local, but the coordination would stretch across the planet to similar hubs.

Jack, formerly known as Subject Zero and often referred to as the Psychotic Biotic, found herself amid the rubble eking out a post-war livelihood. The heavily tattooed young woman with the body of a dancer and the mouth of a sailor had opted to remain with the Systems Alliance after the war had come to an end. She still felt a degree of responsibility for her Grissom Academy students.

Yet the spunky, hopeful young students she had once taught were a far cry from who she commanded now. Several had been killed in the operations they supported against the Reapers and many of the survivors had become disconnected emotionally. Even Ensign Rodriguez, most well-known among them as a caring and nurturing individual had become withdrawn and quiet. She spent most of her days writing in a diary she refused to talk about and often appeared sleep deprived, a result of continuous nightmares— no doubt a result of the horrors she had witnessed on the battlefield.

Others reacted differently to the stress and adjustment to peace. Jason Prangley, who had been the most talented biotic of the unit, drank often and stayed out late in Vancouver's ramshackle bar district. As a result he was often exhausted for the following day's training, irritable, argumentative and quick to disobey orders from senior officers. He had also become dangerously arrogant, proclaiming his skill was beyond anyone else in Vancouver, besides Jack. His actual performance on a daily basis left much to be desired.

Jack struggled to confront these changes in her students. She didn't have the complex understanding of the human psyche and emotions—nor did she fully appreciate the affects combat could have on individuals. Her students were thrust into the middle of an intense conflict and fought day in and day out from the moment Shepard had rescued them from Grissom. They had performed admirably, but now that the threat was gone the fissures were beginning to appear. Some of the students were unraveling and lashing out in ways Jack could not understand. In truth, their behavior mirrored her own years before she met Commander Shepard. She was anti-social, angry, quick to violence and lonely. She cloaked her loneliness with a distrust and viciousness. She couldn't fathom the thought of her students sharing similar traits—having spent so many years of her life in the center of death and confrontation. She couldn't deal with it. She was not Shepard. But one thing was clear; it was becoming increasingly disruptive and drawing the attention and ire of many superior officers in Vancouver.

First Lieutenant Kahlee Sanders, Alliance specialist in artificial intelligence and former instructor at Grissom Academy, was waiting for her with arms akimbo and a look of slight concern etched on her face. Her blonde hair, a rarity in this day and age, stood out from miles off. Jack greeted her with a cool shake of the hand.

"Sanders," she said evenly.

"Jack, I thought I would go in with you," the Lieutenant offered, referring to the reason why Jack was on her way to their unit's commanding officer.

David Archer, the autistic mathematical savant and former Cerberus guinea pig, stood inelegantly beside Lieutenant Sanders. Despite the chilling experiments that Cerberus had conducted on him as a part of Project Overlord, David had come a long way in his recovery. Still, he often had trouble fitting in with others due to his sensitivity to loud noises and poor social skills. Despite this, he held a special place among the Grissom Academy students who often attempted to protect him or shield him from those who were unaware of his condition or background. His eidetic memory and ability to perform immense calculations rapidly combined with his theories on interstellar cross-modulation made him an almost indispensable asset to the Crucible Project. Since then he had worked closely with Lieutenant Kahlee Sanders.

"Hello, Jack," he greeted. His lips were bent into an almost imperceptible smile. As usual there was little emotion in his voice. The young man still retained his shaved head and the almost sallow color of his skin; a result of time spent mostly indoors.

"David," Jack gave a nod. David was a source of budding compassion as well as anger for Jack. He was a perfect example of Cerberus' horrifying capacity for cruelty; a not-so-subtle reminder of what the organization had done to her as a child. When she considered his terrible ordeal beside her own she often felt he had suffered more. After all, his brother had been responsible for the experiments carried out on him. But Shepard saved David; just as he had saved her.

"I have no idea why I'm here," Jack admitted with a shrug, although she had an inkling.

"Rodriguez told me Admiral Mikhailovich was at their bivouac site today and didn't like what he saw," Sanders explained helpfully.

Jack let out a lengthy sigh.

Admiral Mikhailovich was a hard-nosed, by the book flag officer who epitomized the Navy officer corps and was all spit and polish. He'd done well enough to establish himself as a competent officer at the Battle of the Citadel against Sovereign and ostensibly performed admirably as a flotilla commander within the sword fleet that engaged the Reapers over Earth. But since the end of the war he'd been trying to keep his servicemen and women busy with inspections, extensive weapons and gear maintenance, organizing constant unit physical training, and an endless stream of classes. Jack hated it. She wanted to rest. She needed to rest. She and her students needed some time to unwind and let off some steam. But Mikhailovich was ever the disciplinarian and she knew her people were already on his radar well before his surprise visit to their camp site.

"So that's why the Commander wants to see me?" Jack asked rhetorically. Sanders answered with a nod. "Great."

Sanders' piercing blue eyes motioned to the flap of a dilapidated tent behind her. Its olive drab surface was tattered and worn having spent many a day housing the officer who called it his home. That was one thing Jack could certainly respect her commanding officer for. He lived a Spartan lifestyle and preferred little in the way of amenities. When some of the first few buildings were repaired and power was restored he was encouraged to move in and make himself at home, creating a new headquarters out of the newly restored structures. He refused and ordered the spaces be provided for the wounded still recovering as well as the remnants of the 7th Infantry battalion, which had been ravaged in the withdrawal from Vancouver during the start of the war. Their sacrifice had allowed countless civilians to escape.

Jack and Sanders stepped inside the tent. Jack saw Staff Commander Makani Kahoku standing rigidly behind his desk. His hands were clasped behind him, but he hardly looked at ease. He was a well-built man and handsome—in that military sort of way. He had an air about him that made Jack comfortable, reminded her of another Commander she trusted and believed in. But the two scarcely looked alike. Aside from a muscular frame Kahoku had caramel colored skin, brown eyes and chocolate colored hair. He smiled often. This, however, was not one of those times.

Beside him Admiral Mikhailovich stood stoically. He tapped his left foot impatiently, flanked by two junior officers—an aide de camp and adjutant. The Admiral leveled his disapproving green eyes on Jack as she entered. She could almost sense him turning his nose up at her and already she could feel her teeth clenching.

"So this is the leader for that disgrace of a unit I saw earlier today, Commander?" Mikhailovich began immediately, firing his first shot across Jack's bow.

"Uh, yes, sir. This is Jack," Commander Kahoku stated uncomfortably. It was clear he didn't welcome the Admiral's presence and likely just received a major dressing down from the flag officer.

Mikhailovich scoffed. "What is this? No uniform, ridiculous haircut and tattoos all over every inch of your body—which you can't seem to keep covered up," Mikhailovich barked. "It's no wonder the young soldiers under her charge are so abysmal. Look at the example they have to live up to."

Jack felt her face redden and her hands curl into fists.

"Jack," Mikhailovich began with disdain. "I toured your unit's bivouac area today and it was absolutely atrocious. The state of police was disgusting, personal hygiene of the individuals there was unsatisfactory, equipment was missing, one of the individuals was drunk on duty and two more were brought back by military police just as I was leaving. Apparently they had snuck into town without liberty passes. Is this the sort of behavior you endorse?"

"No," Jack grumbled.

"No, what?" Mikhailovich turned a deaf ear toward Jack.

"No… sir," Jack seethed. She could feel her jaw set. "It's not. They've just been having a hard time adjusting… they went through a lot."

Mikhailovich smirked. "A lot? As if to say every person on this planet has not? I suppose your kids are special. I suppose they deserve exceptions be made for them given their exemplary service to the Alliance?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Jack corrected. She was trying desperately to corral her temper as she could feel it flaring up and getting out of control deep within.

"I don't care how you meant it," the Admiral responded immediately. "Let me be clear, as mankind goes forward and the Systems Alliance rebuilds we need to set an example. It's not just for the sake of these civilians whose lives have been destroyed, but also to deter any of these aliens from getting ideas about taking advantage of the Alliance's weaknesses—perceived or otherwise. I'm sure you've already heard the rumors about the batarians. We scarcely can afford to suffer similar issues with other species."

"I understand," Jack muttered through gritted teeth.

"Do you? Well, just to be sure—I want you to know that your students are not yours, but in fact a Systems Alliance asset that can be reassigned wherever they are most needed. With or without you," Mikhailovich explicated.

_Was that a threat?_

"So get your act together, young lady," Mikhailovich advised. He turned to Kahoku. "Commander, that will be all. I'll be keeping my eye on your people—hers in particular. Do not disappoint me."

Kahoku replied with a stiff salute. "Aye, aye, sir."

Mikhailovich rendered an appropriate salute in response and then, with his two cronies, he pushed past Jack and exited the tent.

Once the Admiral was gone Jack whirled on her commanding officer. "This is bullshit, Commander," Jack argued bitterly. She could still feel her fists clenched tightly. It took every ounce of her self-control not to immolate Mikhailovich while he tore her a part verbally. _He doesn't know shit_, she thought.

"Take it easy, Jack," Kahoku urged with an easygoing tone. He was well-aware of Jack's propensity for anger. She wasn't the same explosive individual reports had indicated. The legendary Commander Shepard and the war against the Reapers had tempered some of that edge. But Mikhailovich, well-accustomed to the power he wielded as a flag officer, had berated her severely and threatened to take away the one thing that kept her stable—her students.

"What does he know?" Jack demanded. "How the fuck is he going to stand there and tell me I suck at my job and I don't deserve to lead them?" But deep within, her growing concerns over the unruliness of her students-turned-veterans was being laid bare before her eyes. The Admiral was right—at least to some extent. And perhaps it was that reality that made her angrier.

"I understand the difficulty you're having," Kahoku expressed. "I'm well aware of your background and trust me—Cerberus has impacted my life too. I won't stand here and patronize you and tell you that I suffered from anything comparable to your own experiences, but suffice it to say Cerberus took something very dear to me and it's had an effect on how I live my life and the decisions I make as a leader.

"But you have to understand something, Jack. You have a responsibility to those young biotics. If you can't wrap your head around the complex issues they are facing and instill some discipline in them then the Admiral will likely fold them into the First Special Operations Biotic Company."

"That's bullshit!" Jack retorted, using a favorite expression. She took an instinctive, threatening step forward. "You can't take them away from me."

"It's not what I want, Jack," Kahoku told her sincerely. He shook his head and took a seat in the chair behind his desk. Soft green eyes looked up at his unruly biotic. "But unless you can square yourself and the unit away then we'll have no choice."

"I can't believe the Alliance is fucking me like this. After everything I've done to help," Jack complained venomously.

"I'm sorry, Jack. I hope things work out for the better. But rest assured, if they do not at the very least you can feel content in knowing they'll be transferred to one of the best biotic units the Alliance has to offer," Kahoku informed her calmly, his hands steepled and at rest on the surface of his desk. He certainly didn't want that to happen, but the Alliance and the Marines operated on what was best for the service's overall well-being and mission accomplishment. Individual wants and desires never played into command's decision making. His father had taught him that in the earliest days of his career. It was better not to get emotionally invested in circumstances you could not change; no matter how much you'd like to.

"Yeah, that makes me feel fucking great, sir," she jeered. Sir was said with derision and Kahoku could certainly tell Jack was cross with him. "Are we done?"

"We're done," Kahoku stated reluctantly.

"Good. Fuck this," Jack declared as her anger surged. "I'm out." Kahlee tried to interdict and end the meeting on a more positive note, but Jack smashed past her in a tornado of fury headed for the tent flap. _I need a drink_, she thought as she stormed out leaving Staff Commander Kahoku, Lieutenant Sanders and David Archer silent in her wake.


	9. Chapter 9

Life was exceptional if not exactly perfect.

How long had she imagined a perfect life? Not long. Not ever, actually. She could never have fathomed the opportunity to be a _normal_ person given the way she entered the world, her legacy—her father's legacy. What he'd done was nothing short of reprehensible and there were times she looked in the mirror and thought she saw the glimmer of a man she hated so completely that she took his life. He was a man obsessed with his own image, a narcissist that cared more about his legacy than anything else. There was no right or wrong in his mind. Not as long as his mark on history was assured. There was something profoundly disturbing about how easily he was able to sacrifice thousands of innocent people for the sake of research data. Would Miranda Lawson be judged for patricide in the afterlife, or had she done the galaxy a favor by offing Henry Lawson?

Her life since then had been characterized by such questions, as well as others. There was lingering doubt that surfaced from time to time and Miranda always found herself struggling internally to justify her actions, as righteous as they may have been. At other times there was guilt. She killed her father, but he wasn't _truly_ her father. And he was a monster. Nevertheless the feelings unexpectedly came and went.

But that was another life. It may as well have been a decade ago. Such was the life she lived today, so vastly different from the gallivanting lifestyle she'd known—a life riddled with danger, sex, and adventure. She was not the same woman she had been. There were no battles left to fight, no hidden enemies around the corner, no hazards to protect her sister from. She should have been relieved. She could be _normal_. But did she want that?

Crystalline blue eyes glanced over at the face of her sister. Oriana Lawson, noticing the attention she returned the glance with a broad, cherubic smile. She was _normal_. At least as far as she could be, all things considered. The two had found a quiet village nestled at the base of a mountain range and made it their home. Its population had been small and its location remote enough that it went virtually untouched by the Reaper war.

They walked along a meandering pathway lined with freshly bloomed Lilies, bright Scarlet Pimpernels and aromatic clusters of Lantanas. Boughs from mighty oaks stretched out above them overhead and provided shade along their route. To the west a shimmering lake sprawled out like a carpet and local fisherman plied to and fro upon the glassy surface casting lines in and hoping for a nibble. Picturesque homes from a bygone era dotted the shore. Life here was slow. Ahead she could see an elegantly crafted gazebo, a place lovers went to steal away a moment and watch the sunrise over the lake each morning or to see it set beyond the mountains.

Oriana loved it. She reveled in the tranquility and she diligently began studying to prepare for the day when academic institutions opened once more. Each day she plowed through texts absorbing knowledge in great heaps. At night she quoted Seneca, contemplated Plato and mused about writing a novel with a protagonist based upon her protective sister. At the moment she picked a flower and held the delicate peddles up to her pert nose. With a sniff she inhaled the lovely fragrance and another smile quickly etched its way upon her face.

"I love it here, Miri," she exclaimed.

Miranda replied with an unconvincing smile of her own. Oriana, not particularly keen on human subtly, didn't notice. The truth for Miranda Lawson, intoxicating beauty and adept former Cerberus operative, was not as simple. She struggled to find a place in the quaint little village Oriana so loved. She could not find purpose and battled with the knowledge that she had seen and done more than the residents around her could ever imagine. Was she supposed to forget it all? Was she supposed to forget about Commander Shepard and the arduous scientific effort it took to bring him back from the brink? Was she supposed to set aside the inspiration he instilled in her and forget the horrors his leadership and example had guided her through? Could she possibly fathom removing the bloody images of battle from her mind, the grotesque processing of thousands of human beings by the Collectors, or the innocent civilians lured to their doom by the promise of sanctuary by her own father? Could she?

No. She could not. And she felt restless. She often awoke at night, wandered out to the balcony of their home and sat down upon a whicker chaise to gaze at the sky above. She would stare at the moon or stars for hours and remember the days when she traversed the cosmos. But life was different now. Everyday started the same, progressed the same and ended the same. Only minor details differed and that was just semantics to Miranda.

The pair continued down the oft-traversed path laid out in ancient red brick. Miranda may have been restless but at the very least she could derive pleasure out of seeing her sister so happy. Oriana was safe. There was no more fear of her father, Cerberus had been eliminated, the Reapers were gone and they had found a new life in a place as idyllic as either could possibly imagine.

"I'm glad you like it here, Oriana," Miranda finally remarked. She could feel the cool draft upon her face as it glided in from the lake. The hem of her summer dress fluttered slightly. It was a garment she was unaccustomed to wearing. But Oriana had insisted she dress like the citizens of their new home. So she was clad in a sleeveless summer dress with a twist-front detail at the bust and a v-shaped neckline that exposed her delicately articulated collar bone. The hem hit somewhat conservatively just above the knees but the dress—the color of which was innocently titled _pink breeze_—had elicited quite a bit of attention from the opposite sex.

Oriana had also equipped her with an array of bracelets, which she found silly, as well as a pair of wedges she felt were rather uncomfortable and lacked any real utility. When she complained Oriana had said "The point isn't utility, it's to look cute". To which Miranda responded "I don't do cute." But Oriana insisted and here she was.

Miranda did enjoy watching Oriana flirt with all the men that seemed to flock to them both like a pack of hungry wolves. Oriana was so skilled at wrapping them around her finger and playfully entered into a battle of wits with them, which she always won. Some of the men had turned their attention to Miranda, but she couldn't be bothered with them. They were men that worked local jobs as laborers, miners, hunters, farmers, fishermen and other occupations that she found boring. She had resurrected a real man. Perhaps the only man she could ever truly love. These men could not hold a candle to him. They were men that had never left this secluded village and the nearby mountains and dales. They had certainly never ventured into the stars. They were men that had not faced the Reapers. They were men that hid in cellars alongside their women and kids during the war against the most significant threat humanity had ever faced. They were men that left the fighting to their betters. They were no men at all.

Back at their home Oriana exuberantly listed all the things she could cook for dinner that evening. She remarked upon the small film the pair had watched at a local park that evening and asked whether Miranda enjoyed it as much as she had. "I did," Miranda lied. And then they stepped inside the breezy two-story home and headed upstairs to the kitchen. The room illuminated as they reached the summit of the staircase.

Miranda was alarmed to see a figure standing outside upon the balcony gazing out in the direction of the mountains. "Get downstairs," Miranda instinctively ordered her sister. She gave her a shove and stepped into the kitchen where she drew an old M-25 Hornet submachine gun from a drawer.

The figure stood quietly outside, unaware or unconcerned by Miranda's arrival. Surely whoever it was must have noticed the lights come on in the room. The figure remained motionless, limned in the ambient light coming from the kitchen.

Miranda carefully drew closer, her weapon held at the ready. She could make out some detail. The figure was well-built, but not particularly tall. She guessed it was a man based on the short hair and muscular physique. He was wearing a tight-fitting combat suit Miranda often associated with Cerberus operatives. Was he a surviving agent that sought her out? Was he a last ditch effort by the Illusive Man to assassinate her even after his own death?

The glass door automatically slid open once it detected Miranda's approach. She cautiously stepped out onto the balcony with her sights leveled on the back of the man who had intruded on her home. Inwardly she felt ridiculous wearing a wispy summer dress and a pair of wedges, but she let none of that show when she addressed the stranger. "Turn around, slowly."

The man's head tilted to the right ever-so-slightly as he heard her speak. He raised his hands up as if to indicate he was no threat at all. He slowly turned around to face her. "Are you really pointing a gun at me? Even after everything we've been through?"

Miranda was surprised. She loosened the grip on her SMG. "Jacob?"

Jacob's brow piqued as he studied the outfit Miranda was wearing. "Wow, looking good," he chirped with a sly grin.

"Shut up," she shot back.

"Can I put my hands down yet?"

"Of course," Miranda responded. She lowered her gun. "What are you doing here?"

"To be honest," Jacob began with gravitas. "I need your help, Miranda."

Minutes later Oriana had been invited back upstairs and the three of them gathered in the dining room near the kitchen. Jacob sipped at a glass of water Oriana had provided and explained at length that a group of heavily armed troops had attacked his home and kidnapped Dr. Archer.

"Dr. Gavin Archer? From Project Overlord?" Miranda questioned incredulously.

"The one and the same," Jacob nodded. His fingertips tapped at the rim of his glass of water.

"What would anybody want with him?" Miranda queried.

"No idea. His expertise is in synthetic intelligence—mainly the geth. But since the war the geth stopped working… they're dead," Jacob stated, feeling awkward for his choice of words.

"So you have no idea who the attackers were? No leads?"

"Just one," Jacob exclaimed. He produced a crude drawing of a stylized skull that had the battered wings of an angel spreading out from behind it. "This is the insignia half of them had on their armor. Any ideas?"

Miranda studied the image and shook her head. "No clue." She rose to her feet. "But I know someone who probably does."

"Good, because I'm totally out of my depth here," Jacob admitted. He was a soldier. You could point him in the direction of the enemy and he'd locate, close with and destroy that enemy. But investigating someone's disappearance? Trying to gather and evaluate clues? He couldn't even be called an amateur in that regard.

"Why do you care anyway?"

"I promised to protect those scientists when they fled Cerberus… they snatched him right out of my home, Miranda. They threatened my fiancée, they threatened my _child_. I can't let them get away with that and I have a responsibility to Dr. Archer," Jacob stated with firm intent. He was calm, as usual, but the anger the attack caused was evident enough to Miranda.

"So what can I do?" Miranda asked as she crossed her arms.

"Besides help me identify this insignia?" Jacob leaned back in his chair, one arm rested along the top. "You can come with me," he suggested smoothly.

Oriana's eyes widened. "Absolutely not," she objected. "You're done with that life, Miri. You told me so yourself. You said we could live in peace here—that we would be safe."

"Oriana… it's not that simple," Miranda replied.

"Yes it is," Oriana insisted. She aggressively stepped toward her sister. "We have a perfect life here. A wonderful home in a lovely town, plenty of friends, beautiful weather and potential for something better."

"Oriana, those are _your_ friends. I don't fit in here. I belong… I belong out there doing something—anything." She motioned errantly toward the heavens that existed beyond the roof of their home. "The important thing is that _you're_ safe now and you can build a life here. I just-" But Miranda didn't get the chance to finish her sentence. Oriana stormed out of the room out onto the balcony. Miranda's gleaming eyes shot a quiet look of concern at Jacob who remained silent. After a moment he shrugged and Miranda decided to follow her sister.

The night air was cool and the faint smell of distant pines wafted in with every gentle gust of wind. Oriana was leaning against the balcony's handrail staring into the celestial heavens above. In such a secluded place the stars shined brightly and occasionally a shooting star could be seen arcing into the atmosphere in a gleaming streak before disintegrating into an array of bright color. Only most of the time they were not shooting stars at all, but wreckage of the ships that had fought the Reapers—an oddly beautiful reminder of the sacrifice of so many.

Miranda felt a chill, perhaps more from knowing she'd part ways with her sister than from the light winds.

"What's out there, Miri?" Oriana questioned, sensing her sister's presence. "What is so important about a life out there that you don't want to be here with me?"

"It's not like that," Miranda murmured.

"All you've ever wanted for me was a normal life," Oriana reminded her. "But all I've ever wanted was my big sister. You're determined to keep that from me."

"You're right," Miranda admitted. She arrived at the bannister and leaned against it beside her sister. "I want you safe, I want you happy, and I want a normal life for you… but the same life is not in the cards for me."

Oriana looked over at her with a near-scowl. Miranda's words were not convincing. "You think it's easy to be normal knowing what we are? Who we came from? Our father was a monster and the same blood flows through our veins… no, it's worse than that, we are identical copies. How is that normal? How can I be normal knowing what I am?"

"You can forget all of that now, Oriana. We're not our father. We are _not_ his legacy. What we do in life… our successes, our failures, who we love and where we go—we do it of our own volition. We decide," Miranda said tenderly. She wrapped an arm around her sister. It was peculiar to her, a couple of years ago she'd never be able to voice those words. A man, the perfect man, had shown her she could be so much more than her father's legacy. She could define herself by _her_ accomplishments and her mistakes. He made her believe.

But he was gone now.

"And yet here you are trying to leave," Oriana argued, but Miranda could feel her pull closer to her older sister. She was savoring a last embrace because as bullheaded and stubborn as Oriana was, Miranda was worse. Oriana knew she could not stop her from leaving.

"I wish I could say something to make this right, but everyday we're here I feel less like myself and more like something plain… like paint on a wall; no purpose but decoration. People here—they talk but I can never listen. What they say, what they do… I can't relate to it… I don't want to. This just isn't a place I can be happy, Oriana," Miranda explained as delicately as she could.

"I know," Oriana admitted after a few moments. "It's a struggle for you, I understand. I just want you safe. I want you with me so you will be proud of me."

"I am proud of you. And I will always love you, sister," Miranda expressed affectionately.

Miranda felt the tightness of their hug as Oriana used what strength she possessed to constrict her arms around a sibling so filled with wanderlust she refused to anchor herself in safe harbors. "Just don't forget about me," Oriana instructed with a smile that came amid an effort to choke back tears.

"I could never."


	10. Chapter 10

Lieutenant James Vega felt the gritty crunch of dirt beneath his boot as he stepped off the UT-47 Kodiak transport.

Garrus, Tali and Liara fanned out around him as he gazed ahead toward a lengthy canyon that was typical of the rough terrain on Wrill. Vegetation was sparse and the nearby star, Malgus, blanketed the area in a rusty orange glow.

"We're clear, Lieutenant," he addressed the Kodiak pilot via the communications device hard-wired into his helmet. "Take up a support position overhead in case we need some firepower."

"Copy that, boss," Lieutenant Haley Collins replied. "I'll orbit your advance." With a roar the Kodiak lifted off the deck and rocketed into the air overhead. The rush of thrust cast detritus in a 360 degree circle.

He drew the hefty N7 Typhoon assault rifle from its mantle upon his back. The weight of it was familiar in his hands and in that moment he felt more comfortable in his skin than he had since the end of the war.

All reports of the planet indicated there were hordes of vorcha living on the planet and they were extremely hostile to any outsiders. The scavengers, apparently seeking safety amid chaos, had set up a fortified position deep in heavily occupied vorcha territory. If Vega and the team wanted to reach Shepard's body they'd have to cut through waves of vorcha to get there.

"What do you think, Garrus?" Vega queried as he turned his attention to the turian sharpshooter. His tactical appraisal was as good as anything Vega could conjure up on his own.

Garrus was gazing up at the high ground that flanked either side of the canyon leading toward the scavenger's base. "I can get a good vantage up there—provide some over-watch," he observed dryly, pointing up a steep slope that led to a narrow trail just below the crest of the canyon walls. "I'll move independently of your team down here and pick off anyone you have trouble with."

"Sounds good," Vega agreed.

"I don't like it," Tali interjected. "You've got no cover and there are probably vorcha crawling all over those hills. You might need help."

"I can handle a few rodents. I'll be fine," Garrus proclaimed confidently. He wondered if Tali's concern was rational or whether she was simply trying to protect someone she'd grown to care deeply for.

"We'll need more help down here, Tali," Vega began. "We'll be on low ground getting funneled into enemy forces."

"You're the boss," Tali repeated Lieutenant Collins' earlier cognomen. She certainly didn't want the appearance that her feelings for Garrus would compromise any operations on the ground.

The words Tali spoke felt awkward to Vega. _You're the boss_, he repeated in his mind. _Don't screw it up, amigo_.

Garrus drew his heavily customized M-92 Mantis sniper rifle and turned to face Vega. "I'm on the move. If you guys get into trouble just give me the word and I'll sling rounds down range." With a confident nod and not another word uttered the turian turned and dashed off in search of a suitable perch on the high-ground. His lengthy stride carried him gracefully over the uneven terrain of the rugged planet.

Vega watched him go and understood why Shepard had counted on him. Garrus was a confidence builder. He was a reassuring force on the battlefield. You felt safe knowing he had your back. He was the truest example of a real-life guardian angel. "Let's get moving," he told Liara and Tali. And with that order they set off, weapons drawn, down the craggy path toward the scavenger's base.

Surveying the terrain that surrounded the trio as they advanced would have shaken the confidence of all but the most veteran warfighters. Rocky outcroppings, deep fissures, and seemingly deep cave entrances offered a myriad of options to would-be ambushers. They would have excellent positions to spot enemies _and_ the defense provided by the rugged terrain would shelter them from reprisal. Fortunately, this particular trio were old-hands when it came to armed assaults into hostile areas.

As they advanced the sounds of creatures scampering around in the shrubs or the dark recesses of crevices that surrounded them became all the more apparent. The ghoulish growling and howls that often accompanied the presence of vorcha could be heard distantly. The gaggle of them was prepping for an ambush, Vega knew.

The sound might be unsettling, but Vega was accustomed to facing vorcha. He'd killed dozens if not more of them throughout his career and he felt confident wading into a fight against them with Liara and Tali. It helped that Garrus could deliver precision fire from unseen positions above.

Vorcha were a cross between Nosferatu and some terribly disfigured troglodyte with deviously large red eyes. The goblin like screeches and shrieks often unnerved those unaccustomed to them, but they could scarcely come close to matching the horrors that the Reapers conjured up during the war. Still, he knew they were vicious, violent and extremely territorial.

"In position," the sound of Garrus' voice crackled into Vega's earpiece at exactly the same moment a volley of gunfire rained down on the Marine.

Vega instinctively spread his bulky frame out on the ground as the rounds skittered harmlessly into the dirt beside him. The sound of the crack as they impacted was enough to make his ears ring slightly. The auto-dampeners in his helmet were a bit sluggish.

He glanced to his left to see Liara already spraying streams of fire from her M-12 submachine gun. She followed up with a singularity aimed at their attackers. Vega saw an orb of dark energy open and expand among a pair of vorcha. The two hapless creatures were lifted off the ground and drawn toward the miniature black hole. Liara quickly finished them off with more accurate bursts from her SMG. She aggressively bolted forward for cover as more fire erupted around them.

"You die!" a vorcha squealed.

"Our land! Not for you!" another squawked.

_As if anyone wants this trash heap_, Vega thought as he clamored to his feet and joined Liara behind a sizable boulder. The sound of the vorcha's rounds impacting on the other side was significant. More of the beasts were organizing, as much as vorcha were capable, in order to attack the would-be intruders.

Vega leaned out and opened fire on a vorcha high atop the canyon wall to his right. The scamp had been trying to move up and flank them, but a heavy dose of incendiary ammo ignited his flesh and killed him. The vorcha's charred corpse tumbled down the side of the slope he'd been scrambling along.

The loud snap of a high velocity slug passing overhead, followed by the resonating boom of a rifle that echoed along the canyon walls, indicated that Garrus was now engaging targets. Every few seconds a round would zip past, leaving a contrail in its wake. Vega could hear the shrill cries of the vorcha as they were eviscerated by Garrus' precision fire.

Liara continued to lob singularities into concentrations of vorcha. She devastated throngs of them with her biotics, which she was wielding now with anger and determination that Vega had never seen before. She waded into the open blasting them with her weapon. She cast them to and fro like ragdolls with her powers. She crushed their wiry frames against rock and earth with her biotic might.

Tali sent her combat drone, Chatika vas Paus, out with a wave of her hand. The glowing drone skirted the base of the canyon drawing enemy fire which allowed Tali to lean out and open fire with charged shots from her Arc pistol—a modified, advanced pistol crafted by the quarian Admiral Daro'Xen. After bringing down a few vorcha she traded the Arc pistol for the similarly designed Reegar carbine that she kept tucked on her lower back.

She dashed out into the open, dodged a few errant rounds and then sprinted up a small embankment where she surprised three vorcha. Tali bathed the three of them in bright electric bolts which spit ferociously from the barrel of her carbine. The crackle of the weapon was audible even over the sound of the gunfight around her. She dove behind the embankment and re-targeted Chatika vas Paus, aiming for several vorcha cowering nearby.

Vega surged forward; his N7 Typhoon belched death in great streams. Incendiary rounds pelted cover and the power of the heavy assault rifle shattered rocks into debris sending vorcha diving for safety. The rounds struck a group of them in quick succession, igniting them in flames. Vega followed up by launching a carnage projectile into the center of the group, who still flailed about on fire. The shell arced into the lot of them and struck a vorcha in the center. When the projectile's propellant ignited it combined with the vorcha's burning comrades nearby and kicked off a spectacular explosion that sent body parts flying in all directions.

Vega advanced, flanked on both sides by Liara and Tali who devastated their foes in every direction. Rounds whizzed by overhead and thumped into sneakier foes trying to gain a vantage point on the three of them as they pushed further into the canyon.

Meters ahead a vorcha surprised Tali by leaping out from a fold in the terrain nearby, but the instant the goblin exposed himself Garrus emptied his skull with a surgical blast from his sniper rifle. The vorcha dropped into a lifeless heap at Tali's feat.

_Keelah_, she breathed to herself, having been surprised by the rascal and his subsequent fate. She switched back to her Arc pistol and engaged more distant enemies.

Like a well-oiled machine the trio covered one another as they fired and moved from cover to cover. They relentlessly advanced, slaying vorcha in hordes. The shrieks and cries from the beasties emanated in the sonorous ravine; only to be drowned out by more gunfire and explosions.

For Liara they were an obstacle that she would overcome no matter the difficulty or personal risk. They were an annoyance—merely stopping her from reaching Shepard and finally laying him to rest. With every step forward she was closer to him, closer to her love. It would not bring him back and she would never feel the warmth of his presence or the reassuring sound of his voice, but it would give her closure. And it was just plain right. She could feel the fervor burning inside her. So motivated was she that she shredded her enemies with a hatred she had never felt. She was indifferent to the fact that they had nothing to do with taking Shepard's remains. All that mattered was that they were delaying her. And she would not tolerate it.

As the resistance waned their gunfire slackened and then stopped altogether. The ravine was quiet save for a few errant whimpers from dying vorcha. "Are we good?" Vega asked into microphone mounted in his helmet. "Is everyone good?"

"I'm fine," Liara reported calmly.

"All systems go," Tali added.

"Never been better," Garrus said smoothly over the net.

"All right," breathed a sigh of relief. "I think we got them all, but stay alert—heads on a swivel."

Slowly they continued their advance. Vega's weapon was still drawn and the barrel traced every direction his studious gaze went. But the threats were gone. The squealing sounds of dying vorcha were subsiding as the group distanced themselves.

Garrus, high on the canyon walls overhead, picked his way over the difficult terrain. His Mantis was still clutched tightly in hand but he could scarcely spend much time scanning for threats as he shifted positions. The terrain was too rocky, each step more precarious than the last.

The team rounded a bend in the gorge and suddenly came under immense gunfire from a heavy turret mounted upon a ramshackle wall two or three hundred meters away. It croaked out immense shells that slapped the terrain around them sending gouts of dirt and rock into the air.

"Tali, go! Flank them!" Vega ordered instinctively as he opened fire on the heavy gun's position. The shooter, Vega saw, was a turian protected by a gun shield.

Tali scrambled across open ground and the gunner aimed intently on her as she moved. Heavy rounds crashed violently around her, devastating the very ground she stepped upon. She nimbly avoided many of the blasts, but realized that in her haste to obey Vega's command she had blindly sprinted into the open with no cover in sight. She was already halfway across the gully when the first round struck her. She felt the shock of it smash into her kinetic barriers and could hear the whirr and thwack as the barrier fought off the assault. But another round hit her, and then another. She stumbled forward as yet more rounds found their mark.

Her barrier was failing.

"Tali!" Vega shouted, realizing his mistake. He'd been too anxious to advance. He didn't analyze the terrain, he'd blindly ordered his teammate into the fray. "Garrus, take that guy out!"

"I don't have a shot," Garrus declared frantically over the comm. "Shifting positions."

The Marine whirled around and gazed up into the sky above, his hand pressed firmly against the right side of his helmet. "Collins, put some fire on that position," Vega commanded desperately.

The gunfire was pummeling Tali. She was desperately trying to crawl toward a meager piece of cover.

Vega winced as every shot careened into her failing kinetic barrier.

"Negative—no can do, boss! They've got an AA gun and I can't get close," Lieutenant Collins informed him over the net.

_Not good enough_, Vega thought irately. _Cortez could do it. What's your excuse?_ He could see the large tracers streaking into the sky from some unknown position obscured by the ravine's walls.

Liara, as gently as she could manage, used her biotics to _throw_ Tali toward the cover she so desperately sought. The quarian lifted off the ground and soared several meters before crashing back into the dirt.

Liara and Vega watched as her body rolled raggedly just far enough to put her behind the refuge. It barely protected her from the incoming fire.

Tali wasn't moving.

"Damn it," Vega cursed. He peeked around the bend that provided him with safety in order to assess the situation. He could see the shabby, makeshift walls of the scavenger camp up ahead. Several turians and humans were posted up on ramparts there.

Nearby the heavy turret turned its attention on Vega. He ducked back behind the curvature of the terrain just as some of it was shattered by rounds meant for him. _I need a solution_, he thought. But he was at a loss for what to do. He looked back to Tali, but she still wasn't moving.

"What are we doing, Vega?" Liara questioned- eager to help her longtime teammate down and exposed in the gap. "We have to do something."

"I…" Vega stammered. The cacophony of gunfire resounded through the confines of the canyon. It was ear-splitting. It was earth shattering. Vega shook his head. "I don't know."

Then the familiar sound of a single gunshot echoed above all the others. "Right in the mouth!" Garrus' voice blurted enthusiastically over the radio. Then another shot. And another.

The heavy, rhythmic sound of the turret fell silent.

Vega risked another glance around the edge of his cover and watched more rounds arc into targets on the wall. He hefted his own weapon and fired. He watched his rounds pulverize the cruddy wall that served as protection for some of the scavengers.

A human fled from the onslaught as the incendiary melted his cover into slag. As he raced across the rampart a round streaked from above and struck him in the throat. Vega saw the blood and gristle eject from the man's neck. The force launched him from his feet and he spun almost one hundred and eighty degrees before he disappeared behind the wall.

A singularity materialized upon the wall where more scavengers cowered for cover. The gravity of the biotic attack dragged them from their hiding spots and lifted them into the sky. They helplessly clawed at the wall trying to stop themselves from floating into the open.

Vega turned his fire onto the three of them. Their bodies reacted violently as they were shredded by his gunfire. Flames from the incendiary shells licked at their poorly-constructed armor and their shrill cries echoed over the sound of Vega's ruthless gunfire. In a few moments they were dead. When the singularity died out their lifeless bodies dropped.

"You're all clear," Garrus reported shortly after.

Vega and Liara sprinted across the open terrain over the ruts and small craters created by the turret's slugs in order to reach Tali. They rolled her over on her side and Vega immediately began to check her for any wounds while Liara prepared some medi-gel.

"You… you _threw_ me," Tali sputtered disbelievingly. "I thought we were friends." The quarian sluggishly sat up and whipped her head back and forth.

Liara was relieved. "Thank the Goddess we thought-"

"Those bosh'tets could hurt me?" Tali interrupted. The warm glow of her omni-tool appeared and she punched a few keys. "When I thought they had me I transferred power reserves from my suit's decontamination system to my barriers. It was close, but I'm okay."

"Tali, I'm sorry," Vega expressed sincerely. He hung his head in disappointment. _If Garrus hadn't been there_… he shuddered at the thought.

"Don't worry, James. I should have paid more attention," she assured him. With Liara's help she stood.

Vega remained silent. He watched with his jaw set as Liara helped Tali to her feet.

Garrus slid down a nearby slope and joined them, Mantis in hand. "Well? Shall we?"

Vega leveled his eyes on the turian who had just saved Tali's life. "Yeah, let's get it done."


	11. Chapter 11

It was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Still, sweat formed upon his brow and cascaded down his youthful cheeks. He could feel the perspiration from every pore and groaned at the feeling of his uniform sticking against his back. His head throbbed and the room seemed to sway even as he sat down to regain his balance. His throat was parched and he could feel the thirst welling up inside him. Yet he opted for another beverage.

The curve of the bottle in his hand was familiar now. He'd repeated this exercise on many an occasion despite the objections of his peers. Despite _her_ objections. But he didn't care what she had to say. Not anymore. He had fought beside her, saved her on more than several occasions and when peace finally came she rejected him. Friends… as if that were enough for him. As if another friend could comfort him in the lonely hours of the night when the horrors he'd seen and done revisited him. He didn't need any more friends.

He took a long, hard pull of the scotch and felt the liquid bite at his taste buds and sear his throat. He let out a cough when he set the bottle down and surveyed his surroundings. The living conditions in their so-called barracks were barely suitable for an animal in a zoo. His dirty uniforms lay strewn upon the grimy floor amid unused gear and what meager personal effects he still possessed. Light scarcely entered through a few massive fissures in the bulkhead which also let in the chilling night breeze and an abundance of bugs. His cot, so uncomfortable to sleep upon, was stained with his sweat and probably the sweat of a dozen Marines before him. He'd been told he was lucky to have a cot at all. But that didn't make him feel better.

He'd been on half a dozen worlds supporting Alliance Marines in their fight against the Reapers. He'd seen them die in droves, a result of his youthful inadequacy and the Reaper's relentlessness. It took time to develop his talents, his biotic barriers were not always strong enough and men and women died because of it. He could remember nothing of them. They were faceless beings masked in anonymity thanks to the breather helmets they wore. But their screams—he could always count on remembering their screams.

As the contents of the bottle emptied his grasp on consciousness began to slip away. Visions of battles hard fought and often lost intermingled with the here and now. Thoughts of a woman loved and hope spurned surfaced and then cascaded away with a swig and grimace. The pain in his heart existed for a time like a dagger in the chest but numbed and then vanished in waves of 80 proof. But the loneliness remained—just as it always did. Then the world was spinning and Alliance biotic phenom Ensign Jason Prangley drifted off into unconsciousness, an empty bottle of scotch beside his flaccid grasp.

"Wake up!" A flat paddle of a hand across the face brought Prangley back to reality, back to consciousness. His lids sluggishly opened and Ensign Alexandra Rodriguez was kneeling overhead with a mixed look of anger and concern. "Wake up, Jason, we have to go!"

His head throbbed and his vision was blurry. He felt dizzy, too much scotch. He struggled to sit up, not taking her warning seriously. Then a massive explosion outside jarred them both and sent dust and debris from the shabby building raining down upon them. "What the- what the hell is going on?" Prangley queried as he stumbled to his feet with Rodriguez's help.

"We're under attack," Rodriguez told him seriously. "I don't know who they are, but they're killing everyone."

"What?" Prangley stuttered. Confusion set in alongside the feeling of a bad hangover, but his biotic amp made hangovers non-existent so he must have still been intoxicated. "Where did you come from?"

Rodriguez yanked him forward and out the door of his grubby quarters. All around them the sound of gunfire and airships could be heard. An A-61 Mantis gunship zipped by with its dual M350 mass-accelerator machine guns spewing slugs along the way. Rodriguez realized the gunship bore no Alliance colors and immediately understood the situation to be worse than she had initially thought. She dragged Prangley along as more explosions and gunfire erupted around them. She could see Alliance Marines, clearly unprepared, running to and fro trying to make sense of the sudden attack.

Great plumes of acrid black smoke rose from fireballs caused by precision guided missiles and biotic attacks on their camp's fuel cells. Ahead she could see well-armed soldiers fighting and winning against poorly equipped and badly disorganized Alliance personnel. They wore an array of different armor types and were strapped from head to toe with guns and thermal clips to spare. They killed everyone. They gunned down the armed and unarmed alike as they rushed toward an office building in disrepair nearby—one of the few where power had been adequately restored. It was used by the Alliance for research and development. Reaper technology was still being studied. Some wanted to extrapolate the data toward better technologies while still more wanted to destroy every scrap of the stuff.

"Where are they going?" Rodriguez questioned aloud as she watched them violently make entry into the building. The attackers were precise and every rush they made was well coordinated. They made short work of the few Alliance troops that tried to hinder them at the entrance.

Prangley offered only a groan and Rodriguez labored under his drunken weight. "Lieutenant Sanders is in there!" Rodriguez suddenly realized. The Alliance officer and her aide, David Archer, often worked inside the building. She staggered forward with Prangley in tow and was able to quietly enter the building behind the armed personnel who seemed too consumed with shooting scientists, guards and unarmed Marines to notice her behind them.

More gunfire was heard inside, intermingled with screams. Some personnel came scrambling by, intent to escape the massacre inside. Frightened eyes looked at Rodriguez from beneath masks of blood and gore. Was she crazy to go inside? She could hear familiar voices then, the sound of people from her unit—men and women that had fought in her biotic support platoon. She rounded a corner and narrowly averted being seen by one of the attackers that held rear-security. _So they're professional enough to watch their backs too_, Rodriguez thought. Three hundred and sixty degrees of security, it was one of the most important facets of military procedure that had been drilled into her time and time again by salty Marine NCOs. It had taken a long time for the lesson to sink in.

She leaned over and carefully relinquished her grasp on Prangley. He slumped against the wall and let out another mumble.

She peeked around the corner and saw her peers, other biotics, fighting against an onslaught from the heavily armed and armored attackers. Peterson and Antonov were killed by a grenade and then Kapur was brought down by two concentrated salvos of heavy fire.

Rodriguez felt her heart sink. She didn't know what to do. She wanted to attack, she had to attack. She had to help her friends. But could she? They were dying now faster than before as the seemingly merciless assault continued. Rodriguez was best at defense. She could create strong barriers, but her attacks were not powerful.

She saw one of the men drag Ling out from behind some cover. Rodriguez watched the younger girl, exhausted from overuse of her powers, kick and scream futilely. She stopped when they shot her in the head and Rodriguez had to stifle a gasp. Then the group took possession of their objective—or so Rodriguez assumed.

David Archer awkwardly stepped out from where he had sheltered—protected by his fellow Grissom Academy alums. But they were all dead or dying now and only David remained. He surveyed the slaughter around him and Rodriguez could see the sadness reflected in his face. He was flanked by a trio of the gunmen and they began to escort him toward a nearby stairwell that led to the roof.

"Package is secure. We're on the way to the roof. We need extract," she heard a gruff voice report into a radio.

They began to leave, but before the group was gone Prangley let out another drunken moan and this time they heard it. Two of them, a man and woman, turned toward the direction where Rodriguez was hidden. _Damn it,_ Rodriguez cursed inwardly.

"Check it out," the voice from before ordered.

A few more troops joined the first pair as they cautiously advanced toward Rodriguez's position with their weapons up. She began to worry as she knew they would find them both. She was no match for them. They had killed her whole team. She looked at Jason who was slipping in and out of consciousness. His eyelids drooped and his mouth was agape. _He could stop them_, she thought. _He was always the strongest of us_. But that was not an option. He was incapacitated and only Rodriguez remained. She swallowed her fear and conjured the strength inside her and then stepped out from her hiding place.

"Take this!" she shouted as she cast a massive orb in the direction of the attackers. The mass effect disruption smashed into two of the troops and they went flying back into a set of filing cabinets. Their bodies ricocheted off the hulking storage containers which tipped over from the force of the impact.

"Another biotic!" one of the soldiers shouted through the metallic sound of his breather helmet. "Take her out."

Gunfire streaked toward her, but the biotic barrier she had erected shrugged off the initial attacks. With great effort she was violently yanked one of the soldiers from his feet. She smashed his frame into the ceiling and then with sudden power he rocketed into the ground. The others dove for cover, but continued to fire at her. She dodged some of the rounds and her barrier stopped some of the others as she too raced for cover. Without a weapon she felt naked, despite her powers. She needed more. She needed help. She needed Jason. She shrugged off the uncertainty just as a grenade rolled nearby. The explosion deafened her as she lunged away from the blast, but searing hot shrapnel still managed to tear at her flesh.

A biotic throw knocked a couple of the troops down, but they were quick to get back to their feet and she was getting tired. She was used to working with a team. All through the Reaper war they had rotated their biotic duties in order to stay as fresh as possible and even then it had been taxing. Now she was alone and she could feel the immense drain her powers had on her physiology.

How was Jack so strong? _I wish she was here now_, Rodriguez thought between heavy gasps of air. She was forced back by more gunfire and grenades and could only offer a few meager biotic attacks in response. Before long she was pressed into a corner and desperately staving off their attacks.

She looked back to where she had been, across all the debris and recently installed scientific instruments.

She saw Jason stir from his alcohol-induced comatose state. But she was not the only one that noticed. Her attackers saw him too and were moving in to finish him off as they had ruthlessly done to her comrades before.

Rodriguez felt energy surge through her once more as the need to save her last remaining friend came to the forefront of her mind. She lurched out from her cover and released a cataclysmic shockwave that tore up the floor and sent some of the soldiers flying like rag dolls against nearby equipment. She locked another in stasis and bowled past him rocketing forward with all her speed. "Leave him alone!" she shouted through huffs. She lobbed two more biotic attacks at the men creeping in on Jason. The orbs hit their targets and the distortions seemed to squash against their body before the force of the attack exploded and sent them reeling into the floor where they slid to a halt a dozen feet away.

She was alive. She was strong. She was motivated, she felt stronger now than she ever had before. But it would not last. The strength she had exerted on her attacks had weakened her barrier and she felt the sudden, shocking pain of a slug striking her from behind. She stumbled forward just as the round exited her chest, having bounced around inside before doing so. She turned in time to receive more gunfire from attackers too stubborn to die. Her biotic barrier warded off some of the shots, but still more entered her small frame. Her body writhed in pain as the ruthless assailants riddled her with gunfire.

Finally, she collapsed upon the floor, her heartbeat faint, her lids barely open. Blood pooled in great heaps beneath her body and she struggled for breath.

The two soldiers hovered over her. They glared down at her through the faceless masks they wore, manufactured blue eyes eerily alight. "Tough bitch," one said through the mask.

"Not tough enough," the other chuckled. He leveled his pistol on her forehead, took aim and fired. Her head was hammered back into the floor from the shot. Rodriguez lay motionless. Her bright blue eyes- now lifeless- gazed vacantly at the ceiling overhead. But the blood continued to flow from her body and she was soon awash in a puddle of it.

The two turned their attention to Prangley who was grumbling as he awoke from his unconscious state. His confusion was obvious as his bleary eyes locked on the two armor-clad killers. They looked at him and then each other. "Is this guy drunk?" one asked.

"If he is then he's about to die from a splitting headache," the other laughed as he aimed his pistol at Prangley's face.

Prangley gazed at them through watery, unfocused eyes. What was happening? Where was he? He felt dizzy, he wanted to vomit. He breathed noiselessly as he stared down the barrel of the gun. And he scarcely flinched when the two of them were surrounded by an eerie purplish aura, lifted from the ground and then cast with immense force against a wall nearby. So hard was the force that they both left massive cracks in the thick concrete structure. Their armor was split and they lay dead upon the ground beside Rodriguez.

Rodriguez? Prangley's eyes widened at the sight of her. What was she doing here? What happened? He lurched forward and crawled on all fours toward her.

"Prangley!" a familiar voice barked as he sidled up next to Rodriguez's body, oblivious of the blood. "What the fuck happened?"

He turned to see his teacher- his mentor—Jack standing fiercely over him. She was angry. No, it was rage, but it was tempered by what she saw. She looked at Rodriguez's body and it didn't take her much investigating to realize most of the rest of her students lay dead as well.

Prangley had no answer for her. He didn't know what happened. He just stared silently at Rodriguez with his mouth hung open.

"Who the fuck are these guys?" Jack seethed as she used her boot to roll one of the corpses over onto his back. The only identifiable feature on his armor was that of a skull with ragged angel wings behind it.

"I…" Prangley stammered. "I…"

When Jack turned back toward Prangley she saw him vomit and she could smell the alcohol. She watched him wretch for a few moments before she stomped over toward him and yanked him to his feet. He was limp in her vice-like grip. His bloodshot eyes looked into her angry gaze and it was clear he had given up a long time ago. Just as she had worried he would.

"You're drunk," she accused through clenched teeth. "You're fucking drunk and your friends are dead!"

"I don't know," Prangley muttered. Jack cringed from the smell of the booze on his breath. "I don't know what happened." He started to sob.

It made Jack angrier. She shoved him into the wall. He slid down into a crumpled heap on the floor and began to cry.

Jack investigated the charnel house the research office had become. Nearly all her students had turned out to ward off the attackers. But why did they come here? She heard voices and turned to see Lieutenant Sanders, Commander Kahoku and a squad of Marines enter.

"What happened?" Sanders asked, her eyes were wide with horror as she surveyed the scene. She had known many of the students for years.

"Whoever attacked us came here for a reason. What kind of research was going on here?" Jack demanded.

"Nothing that would warrant this," Sanders confessed with a heavy heart. "Where is David?"

"I haven't seen him," Jack replied.

"But he was here before the attack," Sanders told her as she picked her way through the Alliance remains. Her eyes held a glimmer of tears as she looked at each of their faces.

Jack felt that sadness too, but she showed none of it now. It was being repressed deep within her—just like all the pain and hardship she'd experienced throughout her life. Only the rage permeated her shell.

Whoever they were they had been swift, silent and deadly until the moment of their attack. There had been no indications of an intrusion and when their assault began the Alliance was completely unaware.

The final realization of peace after the war with the Reapers had made many of in the Alliance understandably complacent. No one could have imagined a paramilitary group storming into the heart of an Alliance camp.

"Was it the Reaper tech they wanted?" Commander Kahoku asked, turning his attention to Kahlee Sanders.

"I don't see why they'd want any of it. It's all out of commission," she noted.

"Well launch an investigation," Kahoku assured them. "We'll find out who did this. In the meantime we need to get a head count of all camp personnel. Find out who was killed and tend to the wounded."

"A head count?" Jack asked venomously from down the hall. She had seen the bodies of Kapur, Antonov, Ling and Peterson. "My people are here. They're fucking dead."

"Jack, I'm sorry," Kahoku offered sincerely. He knew the loss would be immeasurable to the woman. She had seen them through the war and some had died while others had been wounded. These were her survivors- her veterans.

And in one foul swoop they were taken from her.

"Just tell me who did this," Jack said plainly as she stalked past the Commander and his Marines.

_Because I'm going to fucking kill them…_


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note: Hope you guys are enjoying the story thus far. And I hope the characters are in keeping with how they were in the game series. Thanks for reading. Feel free to leave a note if you have any comments or are enjoying the story. _

To call it a base may have been an overstatement. When Vega was able to pry open the entrance to the scavenger's lair it revealed a rather dreary interior of makeshift huts and structures cobbled together by stolen construction materials, starship wreckage, and old building debris. In some instances the structures were built into the canyon walls. The scavengers had dug a well in the center of the encampment and there was a clutter of tables and chairs under an awning nearby, likely used as a communal dining area.

Despite the impressive cannon they had encountered outside there were no indications of powerful defenses or a well-organized guard force. The camp appeared empty, but the team advanced inside cautiously. As they made their way inside the shabby walls of the encampment they did so in an organized manner. Vega and Tali would shelter behind wreckage or an out of commission air car. From the safety of these positions they provided cover for Garrus and Liara, who advanced deeper into the camp and found spots to post up on near ramshackle buildings or in the fold of some advantageous terrain. They repeated this procedure time and again as they systematically cleared each hut and hooch in the camp.

"Were they all on the wall?" Vega asked no one in particular. The camp was desolate, no movement and no sound. "How many did you smoke up there, Garrus?"

"Four," Garrus reported throatily. His eyes vigilantly scanned the buildings they had not cleared. He followed Vega into a dilapidated shack.

"Impressive," Vega commended as he kicked over some furniture inside. There was a mildew-stained cot in the corner and some storage containers. The space was poorly lit and the air smelled musty. He glanced back to address the turian whose form was bathed in shadow, backlit by the ochreous glow of Malgus outside. "Didn't take you long."

"Child's play," Garrus grunted. "Thanks to all those husks, I've had plenty of practice with rapid target acquisition."

Vega finished his cursory examination of the hut's interior and stepped beside Garrus. Tali and Liara were out of earshot, clearing a lean-to nearby. "Thanks for the help," James said seriously. He placed a firm hand on the turian's armored shoulder. "Really, I don't know what would have happened to Tali if you hadn't…"

"Don't mention it," Garrus cut him off. He readjusted his grip on his rifle. "Just doing my job. We're a team right?"

"Right," Vega agreed.

But there had been urgency in the act that Vega was unaware of. When the situation worsened Garrus was desperate to save Tali. In the past he had been unshakable. Even with rounds whizzing by overhead Garrus maintained his calm and applied a surgeon's precision to the type of fire he delivered. After years of engagements his heart rate rarely spiked. Proper breathing, a shallow heartbeat and a slow trigger pull were essential to that ability. But in that moment, knowing Tali was in danger, he was almost frantic. He surged over obstacles and hastened across the undulating terrain to get himself in a position to fire. Unbeknownst to Vega, Garrus had missed his first two shots. After the fact he felt embarrassed by his frenzied approach to the situation. His feelings for Tali had compromised his abilities. And the sickest part of it was that it nearly cost Tali her life.

Any further thought on the subject would have to wait. The sound of a biotic's powers flaring up passed them both by like a shockwave. They stepped outside and bathed in Malgus' light. The pair's eyes were drawn to a nearby hut just as the wall exploded and showered them both with the remnants of savaged debris. A single turian body rocketed past as well and skittered into the assembly of chairs and tables in the dining area. From the bombed out remains of the hut Liara stepped, a sinister purple glow encompassed her delicate frame and she walked toward the turian with purpose.

"Where is he?" she demanded, but the turian must not have choked out an acceptable response. Liara lifted him high into the air then slammed him back down with tremendous force. Like a ball, he bounced off the surface.

"Liara!" Vega called out in a commanding tone. He and Garrus dashed across the open ground to catch up to the seething asari as her powers flared once more.

"Not good enough. Try again," she urged menacingly. She wasn't the innocent asari scientist. She was the Shadow Broker. She had transformed into the ruthless information broker that had allowed her to get Shepard's body back from Tazzik; the same broker that brought down her predecessor and saved Feron. She was filled with a passionate disdain for not getting what she wanted. With a flick of her wrist she sent the turian sliding across the rock-ridden ground until he collided with a stack of salvage. He let out a hoarse cry as the impact forced the air from his lungs.

"Liara, stop," Vega directed. He reached out and grasped her by the shoulder, stopping her advance on the turian scrapper.

"Stay out of this!" She whirled around on him and slapped away his hand. "I need to know what he did with Shepard."

Vega stepped in front of her. "Not like this."

Liara's chest heaved in and out as she fought to control her anger. Garrus lined up beside Vega as if to indicate the Marine was correct. Then Tali was there too, imploring Liara to calm down. She was not herself. Slowly her rage dissipated and the biotic aura that surrounded her form died down. "Please, James," she began. "Just find out what they did with John."

Vega bit his lower lip. "I'm going to find out," he assured her with a nod. He turned and headed toward the injured turian. Garrus advanced beside him, leaving Liara to be comforted and watched by Tali.

The turian was middle-aged and pockmarked. His dark carapace was covered with the white facial tattoos associated with the colony Magna. He was missing one of the digits on his left hand, perhaps the result of an old accident. At the moment he was coughing and spat up a dark blue fluid—blood. Liara had damaged his internal organs. He was dying. Vega could hear the wheezing as he labored to breath.

"I don't want to make this hard," Vega began. "But if I have to… I'll turn you back over to her." His head gestured toward the asari biotic.

"What do you bastards want? I'm just trying to run a salvage operation here," the turian wheezed.

"That might be true, but your people brought back something more important than salvage recently," Vega accused as he lorded his imposing physique over the injured turian.

The scavenger sat upright against the scrap that his team had collected, though not without some difficulty. "Maybe we did."

"You know damn well you did," Vega continued. "And you knew who he was… where is he?"

"No point… no point in telling you now. He's gone. Sold the legend off to someone that paid good for him," the turian sputtered. He let out a monstrous string of coughs and hacks. "Lot of good that does me now."

"Who? Who did you sell his body to and where are they going?" Vega demanded. He glanced back to see Liara and Tali approaching. Liara had gotten impatient, or perhaps she just wanted to hear the man spill the beans. Vega knelt down, bringing his scarred face closer to the dying turian. "Why would anyone buy a dead man?" It made no sense. There were strange people across the galaxy. But why buy a dead body, even if it belonged to Commander Shepard?

The turian's mandibles flexed as he choked on some of his blood and battled the pain. There was more damage to his organs than Vega had anticipated. "Dead? He's not dead."

Vega's eyes widened. "What?"

"What?" Liara blurted simultaneously. She grabbed Vega by the shoulder and yanked him back. The Marine barely managed to stay on his feet. "Where is he? Who took him!? I swear to the Goddess if you don't tell me everything you know I'll flay you alive."

"Get back. Get… get away from me you psycho," the turian coughed as he impotently tried to distance himself from Liara.

"Tell me!"

"Liara, stand down," James' voice boomed. He turned her around, clasped his powerful hands upon her shoulders and forced her eyes to meet his own. "I'll take care of this. You _need_ to trust me. Please."

Liara fumed, but Vega's grip was vice-like. She could break free with the help of her biotics, but it wasn't a battle worth having. Vega was on her side and he was trying to help. She just wasn't sure she had the patience for it. Not when it came to this. "Fine."

He relinquished his hold on her and she stepped aside, well away from the threatened turian.

"Just tell me what happened," Vega counseled the scavenger in as soothing a voice as he could muster. "You said Commander Shepard is alive?"

"Yes… yes, he's alive. My team found him on the Citadel. Low pulse, beaten and bloodied raw, really bad shape—but he was alive," the turian explained. There were lengthy gaps between each word and he struggled to breath. It was evident to Vega that he didn't have much time to get useful information out of him.

"You brought him back here and sold him off… who did you sell him to?"

"Mercenaries, by the look of them. I don't know. They came in two ships. Well-armed, lots of armor. High-tech stuff, you know?"

"Where did they go?" James pressed; he leaned down again and reached out to lay a caring hand on the turian's shoulder. He locked eyes with the dying alien and a look of mercy surfaced in the reflection of his pupils. _You can trust me._

"I don't know… I don't… I don't know," the turian murmured. Another dribble of dark blue liquid bubbled from his lips and leaked down his quivering chin. "Leave me… leave."

Vega shook him gently. "I need to know where they took him," he said firmly.

"No. I don't know… I said… I said I… don't know," the turian mumbled between gurgles that emanated from deep within the recesses of his chest.

Vega drew his muscular frame back to full height and glanced at Garrus. "It's not good," he claimed, then looked over at Liara whose own face was fixed with a hard edge. "He's dying."

"Good," Liara insisted coldly. She gave one last look at the feeble turian who choked on yet another dose of his own blood and then she stalked off.

"What do we do with him?" Tali questioned with a hint of concern in her voice. It was clear the turian was suffering and there was no telling how long it would be until he bled out from his injuries.

"I say we leave him. He sold Shepard off to some band of mercs. He deserves it," Garrus suggested icily. He still held his Mantis sniper rifle casually in his clutches.

"Garrus," Tali objected. "We can't just leave him here. It's not right."

"He stays," Vega said flatly.

"But Vega he's injured. He should be taken into custody and treated," she insisted. _Or at the very least be put out of his misery_, she thought.

"He stays. That's the end of it," Vega ordered resolutely. "Let's go." The Lieutenant didn't wait for an agreement from the quarian. Instead he walked off in Liara's wake and immediately hailed Lieutenant Collins for pickup. Garrus followed behind him, as silent as ever.

_What's going on with all of you? _Tali shook her head and glanced one last time at the dying turian who seemed resigned to his fate. He made no objections when she walked away.


	13. Chapter 13

"Citadel Flight 91, you're cleared for final approach to pad twenty seven," a congenial voice relayed via the communications equipment in the pilot cabin of a UT-47 Kodiak shuttle painted in a non-descript gunmetal gray. "A liaison will be there to greet you upon arrival. Please remain on the pad until you can be escorted."

"Understood," the salarian affirmed in a high-pitched and clinical voice.

The UT-47 glided easily over the islands and the peninsulas that stretched out like fingers into the surrounding sea. The water was crystalline blue and frothed white along the picturesque beaches where the waves lazily came ashore. If one looked close enough a sea creature might be seen breaching the surface of the water.

The dark pools that served as the salarian's eyes viewed the distant mountaintops that jutted from the deepening waters. These edifices were created from the volcanic activity prevalent all over the planet's surface and served as an exciting reminder of a minor fascination the salarian had with geology. But the great volcanoes lay dormant now. The belching, fiery fury that had helped to create the many atolls they now soared over had long since ceased, giving way to fertile ground carpeted with luscious vegetation. The thick, verdant canopy reminded the salarian of his homeworld Sur'Kesh.

Gradually the islands thick with jungle canopies gave way to collections of islets and keys that were pockmarked with artificial development projects. Foliage was being cleared back by automated machinery, tunnels were being dug, irrigation crafted, foundations laid, and walls erected. The small land masses were a hive of activity and there was an abundance of construction contractors and their mechs moving about in all directions.

Transport craft zipped by the Citadel Kodiak, some piloted while others were merely drones carrying heavy equipment and materials to nearby islands that made up the dense keys in the region. All things considered, it was an impressive feat to see the bustle and the beginning of civilization on this once backwater planet.

The salarian was here for official Citadel business, but he couldn't help but feel a sense of hope as he gazed upon what he saw. All over the galaxy people were trying to rebuild what the Reapers had destroyed. There were constant reminders of the almost unimaginable destruction and it took its toll on everyone, even this well-trained Salarian operative. But here no such reminders existed. The Reapers never launched their harvesting campaign upon the denizens of this forgotten world and the air that pervaded here was hopeful and bright.

The Kodiak reached landing pad twenty seven, a flat albeit small circular platform that rose prominently from a squat gantry way that led to a pair of automatic sliding doors. The Kodiak hovered in place momentarily as the salarian adjusted his flight controls and then the craft gradually descended to the pad below. The engines whined one last time as the power was killed and the interior cabin of the shuttle fell silent.

"We're here," the salarian announced as he rose from the pilot's seat and stepped into the crew compartment.

"About time," his human compatriot joked amicably. "I was running out of ways to fight the boredom."

"Learn to fly," the salarian shrugged. "Then you can balance the tedium of staring at empty space with the simplistic challenges of automatic flight control." His voice was deadpan.

The human grinned. "No thanks, I enjoyed the nap."

"You're a Spectre now, Alenko," the salarian Spectre Jondam Bau reminded him. "Sleep is just a crutch."

"Don't remind me," Kaidan Alenko, Alliance Marine and second human Spectre said with a grimace. His mind harkened back to sleepless nights on the Normandy when the fate of the galaxy rested on the shoulders of Commander Shepard and his crew, Kaidan among them. "Let's get going."

The cabin doors opened with a whine and a hiss and the two Spectres stepped onto the landing pad. Kaidan could feel the moisture in the air as the warmth of the tropical climate set upon him like the unrelenting exhaust that poured from the thrusters of a Kodiak. He could feel his armor automatically adjust the internal mico-climate to compensate. Its cooling efforts were aided by a welcome rush of refreshing air from the nearby sea. Kaidan could smell the salt on the wind and reveled out how the biosphere of an entirely alien planet could remind him so much of Earth. Thoughts of Vancouver and the chilly waters of the Pacific brought a minute smile to his lips.

The pair waited patiently on the pad for several moments before the automatic sliding doors at the end of the gantry way below the landing pad slid open. A female turian formally dressed in chic business attire stepped onto the gantry accompanied by a pair of armed security mechs that followed rigidly behind her. Her lengthy stride created some distance between the mechs and enabled her to cross the gantry quickly. She joined the two Spectres upon the landing pad after a quick climb up a handful of stairs.

"Welcome to Virmire, gentleman," she said in a practiced voice. Her metallic carapace was a pale tan color, accented with the intricate blue tattoos of the Xerceo colony. Concentrated green eyes studied the two arrivals. Her welcome was not overly hospitable, but this so-called liaison was more likely a security contractor. She seemed to regard the pair of Citadel operatives with muted disdain, as if greeting them was an ordeal she didn't relish being subjected to. "My name is Despina Varo. I'll be escorting you to our main headquarters at New Durbin."

Kaidan scanned their surroundings, but saw only minor islands with an assortment of landing pads and a control tower. There were a handful of buildings, but none of particular size. Many were still in the early phases of construction. "Where is it?" he questioned with a scratch of his head.

"New Durbin? Seventy kilometers east of here," she exclaimed plainly. "Follow me please." Without another word she turned sharply on her heels and trotted down the staircase to the gantry below.

Kaidan shrugged and followed beside Jondam Bau.

Walking several paces behind Varo, with the security mechs closely in tow, Kaidan studied the turian's stride and the manner in which she carried herself. He guessed she was former military based on the rigidity displayed in each step. Given turian societal obligations that wasn't a stretch either.

They passed through the sliding doors into a temperature regulated interior corridor which led them to a high-speed lift. The security mechs remained as the three organics stepped inside and began their descent below the surface of Virmire. Quaint music played over a speaker inside the airy confines of the elevator. Kaidan faintly remembered conversations with old friends on the Citadel. Now, however, no one spoke.

It took some time, but before long they arrived at the bottom of the shaft and exited to find themselves beside a brightly lit mass-rail tunnel that ran off in both directions. Despite the evident modernity the tunnel was nondescript. Its high-arched ceilings were braced intermittently with strong cross-sections of support beams and there were occasional signs of access hatches or maintenance galleries, but otherwise the architecture was sparse, utilitarian and barren of people or mechs.

Impressed nonetheless, Kaidan looked left and then right as he strained to see where the rail led. "How far underground are we?"

"It differs in some sections, but on average the tunnel is approximately one hundred and fifty meters below the sea bed and two hundred and fifty meters below sea level," the turian responded mechanically, as if it were a question she was asked often.

After a few moments a sleek, high speed mass-railcar arrived. The doors eased open smoothly and the trio stepped into the empty vehicle. The doors sealed them in and the mass-railcar silently and seamlessly began its journey, levitated by a mass effect field over the single rail that guided it. It speedily took off toward the east.

Kaidan sat himself on one of the bench seats just as Despina positioned herself upon a seat on the opposite side of the compartment. Jondam remained standing.

The blur of the bright white lights passed in a blur outside the railcar's window, but Kaidan paid little attention to it. He leveled his eyes back on the turian who sat inflexibly like a falcon posted firmly on its perch. "Are you former military?" he asked with curiosity. The Spectre leaned forward with elbows propped on his thighs.

"Yes," Despina Varo confirmed tersely. Her tone indicated it wasn't something she wanted to elaborate on.

"And now you're private sector?"

"Evidently," she answered irritably.

"Why the change?"

Despina exhaled heavily. "Money."

"Really?" Kaidan responded with over-emphasized alarm. The average turian valued duty to the Hierarchy before personal gains, but it wasn't unheard of for an individual to seek wealth over that obligation. There were plenty of turian mercenaries. "That's interesting."

"Why? They were more concerned about what I could offer than taking care of me or my comrades," she exclaimed tightly. It was clearly a sore subject for her. "Private sector takes care of me. I actually make enough to live a decent life."

Kaidan could empathize. His time at Biotic Acclimation and Temperance Training on Gagarin station had left a bitter taste in his mouth when he was young. The harsh training he had endured there had been conducted under the purview of a private company- Conatix Industries- it was a well-known fact that the Alliance had supported much of what took place there. In his earliest days as an Alliance Marine he'd struggled to come to terms with that support and the bitterness he felt toward the program. Now, however, he could scarcely fathom choosing profit over service. The uniform meant everything to him.

"What can you tell us about the development projects here?" Jondam Bau suddenly queried, wishing to keep the conversation in the professional realm rather than the personal.

Despina Varo shook her head and mimicked a frown as much as her turian features allowed. "I'm not here to discuss any of that with you. I'll leave those questions for my boss, or his boss to answer."

"Is it common to be so guarded about innocuous questions here? I'm sure investors tour your facilities regularly," Bau pressed. He leaned casually against the bulkhead of the mass-railcar.

"There's nothing innocuous about a question coming from a Spectre," Despina retorted with a flippant wave of her hand. "I'd rather keep my job."

"Fair enough," Kaidan allowed.

The mass-railcar came to gentle halt that brought them to their destination in the lower levels of New Durbin. A security mech stood vigil near the railcar when Kaidan, Despina and Jondam stepped out of the compartment. It scanned Despina attentively and then ignored the Spectres completely.

A short, well-lit hallway led to two automatic doors that slid open as they approached. The entryway opened into a cavernous room, the ceiling of which was a combination of the seabed above and support beams. There were construction workers and construction drones busily toiling over the expansion of the facility. There were unopened restaurants, bars, shops and more. It was a very ambitious project.

"This will be serving as one of the main transportation hubs throughout the region. So they want to build it up to rival anything you might find on a more developed world," Despina explained as the trio made their way toward another lift that would take them to the surface. "There are plans for some of the largest restaurant franchises and Mr. Immelman is also trying to attract some of the high profile luxury boutiques common on the Presidium." She didn't seem particularly interested in what she was telling them.

Kaidan wondered if this was a speech she often gave investors when she escorted them to see Immelman, or if she was just trying to head off any questions the two Spectres might have.

As Kaidan stepped into the elevator and headed for the surface he couldn't help but feel apprehensive over his return to Virmire. It had been over three years since the events that had brought him here the first time; the fight against Saren, the destruction of the genophage cure, and the death of Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams—a comrade and friend that had sacrificed herself so that Kaidan could live. It was a solemn, sobering memory and it kept him silent for the duration of the elevator ride to the surface.


	14. Chapter 14

_Fingers traced over delicate flesh. She could feel her heart pulsate with every breath that touched her sumptuous skin. There was an immediate giddiness deep in the pit of her stomach, anticipation that built there until it poured outward in an immense flow of uncontrolled, raw emotion. _

_His lips touched hers and she could feel her nails clawing at his shoulders and back. His muscles were firm and taut. Her fingers traced the smooth surface of the scars he wore like medals awarded in battle. She eagerly sought to replace the pain the old wounds had caused with joy and pleasure._

_ She could hear the sound of her own breathing as he pressed his lips against her throat and then over and over upon her collar bone. His calloused hands were caring, yet animalistic as they wandered over every inch on her body. She could feel the anticipation building once more, but this time lower than before. _

_ She welcomed the heat of his body upon hers. She felt her entire psyche melt into a puddle of interwoven sensations. His skin on hers, the satin material of the sheets beneath them both and the occasional breeze of cool air that a nearby vent whispered into the room created an amalgam of perceptions that manifested deep in her mind. Her entire form was tingling. He teased at her lips once more with his, and then lightly danced his tongue around her ear. She breathed heavy now as the sensation increased her arousal. Her eyes were closed tight, but her body was fully awake absorbing every caress, every moment. She arched her back, pressing her form into his. She felt his arm snake around her waist and pull her into him. _

_ "Oh, Shepard…" she breathed almost silently between heavy gasps. _

Liara's lids fluttered open. She stared aimlessly at the ceiling of her compartment aboard the SSV Normandy. She blinked a few times before she rose, the sheets drifted off the contours of her body as she sat up. She was alone.

She glanced around the interior of the room. Having felt Shepard's presence so keenly just moments before she had to be certain she was truly alone. A quick scan of the place revealed that she was. She sniffed at the recycled air and let out a heavy sigh.

The ship was silent. The hum of the antiproton thrusters and the Tantalus core were far removed, barely audible here in the only place she could call home. The feeling of loneliness that welled up inside her felt unusually powerful tonight.

The air was cool in the cabin. She rose to her feet and wrapped her body in a cozy, knee length kimono-style robe that Kasumi Goto had gifted to her. She loved the feeling of the light voile material against her skin and the intricate woven cerise colored floral designs that sat beautifully upon a white backdrop. It was a garment she'd worn often in the Commander's cabin after she'd stepped fresh from the shower. He'd found it difficult to keep his hands to himself in those moments. A miniscule grin crept upon her face.

John Shepard is _alive_! The thought rattled to the front of her brain like a cooking pan dropped loudly upon the floor. She could _almost_ shelf the myriad of concerns that floated through her mind at any given moment. She didn't know who had taken him, or why. But that didn't matter now because he was alive and that meant their time together could continue. It was just a matter of getting him back. And she knew there was no force in the galaxy that could stop her from succeeding in that regard.

She tugged the fabric of the kimono snugly against her body and indolently floated over to the myriad of consoles arrayed along the wall of the compartment. "Good evening, Dr. T'Soni. Trouble sleeping again?"

"Yes, Glyph," she said solemnly.

"Would you like me to play you a soothing melody?" the drone asked dutifully.

A thankful, but reluctant smile spread across her face as she turned to address the drone that labored so much for her. "No, Glyph. That won't be necessary. But thank you."

"As you wish, Dr. T'Soni," the drone responded. His normally illumined shell dimmed as he retreated back into a corner of the cabin he favored most when idle.

Liara's fingertips danced along the haptic adaptive interface of her consoles. The combination of her many screens illuminated into an array of different search results. Before she'd gone to sleep she had set her data-mining software to comb the depths of the extranet for even the slightest morsel of a mention of Commander Shepard. She looked for prominent biogenic company purchases, data-mined the black market trade of illegal cloned organs and forums where slavers that specialized in 'high market' products resided. As diligently as she could, she let the Shadow Broker's tendrils squirm their way into the galactic network looking for any clues that might shed some light onto who had taken Shepard and why.

She thought back to when she'd been so ruthless in the pursuit of recovering his remains. It had been a grueling, unwelcome affair that she didn't waver from. Indeed, it had been transformative. She had been a researcher, a biotic of questionable combat prowess when Shepard came along. A tumble of disjointed memories came to mind; the Commander rescuing her from the geth on Therum; the first, stumbling probes into who Shepard was; the way he met her heart race in the awkward silences that fell between them thanks to Liara's sheepishness; the first moments he led her and Garrus into battle against the resurrected rachni; the taste of their first kiss… a moment she seemed to have wait a century for.

So many years of their time spent together were characterized by conflict and fraught with violence. The world they shared was chaotic and every day they labored against a force so monumental in size and power that it miraculous they hadn't succumbed to a mindset of inevitable doom. But then Liara had never been the focal point of strength, nor the epicenter of stability. That was Commander Shepard. His imperfect leadership was perfect in the moments when no one else stepped forward to fill the void—a void created by a galaxy unwilling to accept the specter of annihilation on their doorstep. He tried to make them believe and when they wouldn't he simply carried on the fight without them. It was easy to worry or become consumed with doubt in the lonely hours of the darkest nights. At times the thought of giving up had surfaced too. But when she looked to Shepard and saw his ceaseless devotion to the task at hand, his endless supply of energy and his willingness to sacrifice it was enough to inspire her to stay the course. She could never forgive herself for seeking safe harbor when her paramour was caught up in the largest storm the galaxy had ever known. His devotion shamed her for such bleak thoughts and she redoubled her efforts to the cause.

And so they fought, and they bled, and they sweat, and they shed tears. Friends were lost, innocents were slain, communities were destroyed, and worlds were torn apart. But they'd won. And somewhere along the line they had found time to love one another. What started as the tiniest, faintest whisper grew and grew until it was as powerful as a shout. Unequivocal, unrelenting, ever-enduring—it blossomed into something greater than either could have anticipated. It stitched together a feeling of hope, a scene of the future—life after the Reapers. A life shared together. A life of peace, hard earned from years of bloody conflict. But it was not to be. At least not yet.

She let out a lengthy sigh. No new information had presented itself in any of the processes and bots she'd sent slithering through the extranet. In this she was uncharacteristically impatient. She'd checked their statuses before bed, only to rise three hours later to check again. It wasn't unusual to see days or even weeks go by before her assets and sources could feed her intelligence that was useful.

Her eyes searched out the empty interior of her compartment. Glyph sat idly at rest, his systems powered down and oblivious to his patron's internal suffering. How grand it would be to have a VI capable of mending heartbreak. The loneliness reverberated through her bones from somewhere deep inside.

_No Liara. Don't let despair grip you_, she told herself. _Shepard is alive and you're going to find him. It's another chance at peace. Another chance to lay eyes upon him again. And you're going to do what it takes to make that happen_. She scratched absent-mindedly at her brow and sighed again.

She needed to sleep. Or try. She glided back over to the bed, hoping slumber just might find her yet.

In the war room Garrus came upon James Vega seated firmly in place in front of a monitor. Footage from Wrill was playing on the screen and Garrus saw Vega's features fixated on it. He stood behind the Marine for several minutes, but Vega didn't notice him. He was too absorbed in the footage that appeared on the monitor.

"Vega," Garrus spoke up finally.

The Marine seemed slightly startled and swiveled his chair around to greet Garrus. "Scars," he said simply. "What's up?"

"What are you doing?"

"This? Just going over footage I shot on my helmet cam," he reported innocently.

"What for?" Garrus asked, crossing his arms.

"I made some mistakes out there," Vega admitted lowly. "Need to get better."

"By watching this footage over and over?" Garrus questioned. "Traynor says you've been in here for hours."

"Well I had to make a report to Admiral Hackett and write up the after action review."

Garrus cocked his head. "So that took twenty minutes. Then what?"

Vega shook his head and let out a sigh then gazed up at the ceiling. "Okay. You got me, Scars. I've been watching this video over and over. So what?"

"Learn anything new?"

"Yeah. Like I said, I screwed up. I nearly got Tali killed," Vega replied with an edge in his voice.

"You knew that back on Wrill, though. Didn't you?"

"So?"

"So what is watching this footage over and over going to tell you?" Garrus questioned rhetorically. "James you can't dwell on a bad decision you made in the heat of combat."

"Look, this is the first time I've been responsible for someone's life since… since Fehl Prime," Vega admitted hoarsely. "I have a responsibility to you… to Tali… to everyone on this ship to be me at my best. To be better… better than what we run up against. To bring you all back safe and sound. Just like the Commander did each and every time we stepped off that Kodiak."

Garrus was silent for some time. Only the sound of the nearby consoles could be heard as they idled with a dull thrum of their cooling units. "You're going to make mistakes. We all make mistakes, James," Garrus reminded him. "Trust me. I've made more than enough myself. You learn and you move on."

"That's what I'm doing."

"No, you're sitting in here obsessing over a call you made in a split second. You're not getting anything out of this, Vega. You're just tearing yourself a part. That's not how you become a better leader," the turian's tone was serious, but affable.

"I could have got her killed, Garrus!"

"But you didn't!" Garrus snapped back a bit more forcefully than he intended. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Look, I know the risks. Tali knows the risks. We all know the risks. We don't follow you because we have to. We choose to. We trust you. We know things go wrong out there. Shepard didn't always make the right call, Vega. I was with him long enough to be subjected to a few questionable orders from time to time."

James eased back in his chair, contemplating the turian's words.

"You know what made Shepard better?" Garrus asked. "He didn't scold himself endlessly over slipups. It was his understanding that a leader isn't perfect. He noted every screw up and he did better the next time we went out. But he didn't dwell on every bad call he ever made, James." The turian shook his head. "He didn't have time for that."

James was quiet. That feeling of hopelessness had been paralyzing for him. To see Tali under heavy fire, in a position that James had put her in, was maddening. He couldn't recall a single moment where Shepard had thrust any of his team into such an exposed position. His fingers rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, Scars… you're right."

"I know," Garrus said cockily. "I've been doing this a long time."

"Sometimes I think it might be easier if you just commanded the ground operations."

"Now, now, James," Garrus said wryly. "I know you don't _actually_ think that."

James looked up at the turian. "What? You don't think I think you'd do a good job?"

"Oh, I know you think I'd do a good job. I would do a good job. Better than you," he said with a chuckle. "But Admiral Hackett is picky about who he puts in charge of this tub."

"I _know_ you're not calling the Normandy a tub," James responded wagging a thick index finger at the turian.

"It's an affectionate nomenclature," Garrus excused himself. "Best ship I ever served on."

"That's what I thought."

"So what's the next step?" Garrus inquired.

"Remnant heat signatures indicate they've branched off in two directions," Vega explained, biting his lower lip. "According to our ship heat dissipation index their signature matches a Vesuvala class transport freighter." The Vesuvala was an _old_ volus design—in service for well over fifty years. It was a small ship for entrepreneurs and freight liners that couldn't afford heavier class merchant ships. Its fuel consumption was such that it had a fairly limited operational range; an even more glaring issue now without mass relays. Additionally, its aged anti-proton thruster design meant the ship was slow, especially compared to the Normandy. "We can go after one of the ships. We're fast enough to overtake them. But if Shepard isn't aboard then we'll lose the other ship—most likely."

"Even if we overtake them, how can we get aboard if they're FTL?"

"The Vesuvala's have crap fuel economy. We have their projected heading and based on that fuel consumption there isn't many systems with active helium-3 infrastructure to support refueling. Traynor is working the math right now, but she should have a solution for us soon. We'll jet ahead, park on the far side of whatever gas giant the fuel station is at and then bam." He slapped his hands together loudly.

"Impressive."

"Yeah," Vega admitted. He scratched the back of his head. "I actually suggested we camp out places they'd use to discharge their heat sinks and the static from their drive." He paused for a moment, rolled his eyes and dabbed at his lips with his tongue. "Traynor reminded me they have way too many options for us to cover. Then brought up the whole fuel thing."

"She continues to surprise," Garrus pointed out, not that it was necessary. "Shepard's faith was well placed."

"She's brilliant, really," Vega agreed. "Calm and creative. Couldn't ask for a better officer. She does so much more."

"I guess you'll have to mention that in dispatches."

Vega grinned. "I don't think I've been in charge long enough for that." He scratched errantly at one of the scars on his cheek and then hopped to his feet. "I need a break from all this officer stuff. What do you say we play a game of Liar's Dice? Pretty sure we can get Collins to join."

Garrus looked suspiciously at the Marine. "Joker told me about that game. I don't drink tequila, Vega."

"We'll find you something suitable," Vega responded as they headed for the exit of the war room. "Maybe Adams has some left over antifreeze, or maybe some of that lubricant you're always using to calibrate Tal—errr the weapons with?"

"Very funny."


	15. Chapter 15

As it turned out the Alliance was able to shoot down one of the fleeing Mantis gunships. It happened somewhere over northern California. They sent in the combat search and rescue and found a wounded turian pilot trying to escape and evade near Mount Shasta in the southern Cascades. He hadn't made it far. A broken leg saw to that.

He was brought back to Vancouver for interrogation, but didn't say much when the exploitation team questioned him. For days various interrogators spent hours at a time with him, but he was stalwart. He had nothing to tell them and claimed ignorance of anyone that participated in the attack on Vancouver. He offered the same explanation; he was hired by an intermediary and didn't know anyone else on the operation. He wasn't headed to the same location after the mission. Prisoner extraction was another facet of the op he wasn't privy to. And so on.

Staff Commander Makani Kahoku sat dutifully behind the shabby desk in his drab command tent studiously reviewing the notes that had been produced by the investigation into the attack. Information was scarce. There were few witnesses. Only a handful of those who had seen the attackers had survived and many of them were in critical condition. The intruders had expertly retrieved their own dead and wounded. The only uniform description they could get from witnesses was that they were well-armed and equipped and the emblem of a skull wreathed in ragged angel's wings was etched onto many sets of armor. The intel section had nothing and Alliance brass was too inundated to be of any help with additional support assets.

Kahoku frowned. Their only lead was the turian pilot, but he wasn't cooperating. There had been talk of utilizing more draconian or _enhanced_ techniques on him. But Kahoku stifled any such suggestions.

"Sir!" the panicked voice of one of his subordinate officers penetrated the calm in the tent. The flap folded back and a breathless Lieutenant stepped in. "Sir, the detention center is under attack."

"What?" Kahoku blared. He shot to his feet, palms slammed on the desk. "By who?"

The Lieutenant calmed himself and paused for a moment. "It's Jack, sir. Jack is attacking the detention center."

"Damn it," Kahoku sighed. "She's after the turian. Is QRF en route?"

"The quick reaction force is already on site, sir. But she's barricaded the doors. They're prepping to breach now."

"No, have them standby," Kahoku ordered. If they made entry she would obliterate them with ease. The last thing he wanted was his own men being killed by Jack, who was understandably overwhelmed with emotion. This would take some command finesse. He rounded his desk and tugged his Phalanx heavy pistol's shoulder holster on. "Let's go."

A smoke stack rose from the rear of the detention center and a trio of wounded guards lay writhing on the deck just outside the front entrance. Medics were seeing to them. The QRF's Marines had taken up positions in the best cover they could find, weapons trained on the entrance of the building. The distant sound of an alarm bawled loudly until it finally went silent.

Kahoku and the Lieutenant landed rapidly in an Alliance air-car. The doors flew open and Kahoku stepped out in a whirlwind of haste.

"What happened?" Kahoku demanded as he arrived among the group of assembled Marines.

"Jack showed up, sir. She demanded to see the prisoner," a Marine with a bloodied lip and battered ego reported. "We told her she wasn't authorized." His eyes glanced down at the three immobilized troops. "She didn't like that too much."

"Where are we at with the breaches?" This he asked the QRF commander. His face was hidden behind the plating of his combat helmet, but Kahoku recognized the voice.

"Everything is prepped, sir. We're just waiting for the order to go."

Kahoku's eyes fixated on the entrance of the detention center. He ran a shaky hand through his black hair. His tongue dabbed at dried lips. _What's the best course of action_, he wondered. Things could escalate quickly if he breached. Jack had certainly thrashed the Marines that had barred her from entry, but she hadn't killed anyone. That could change if they stormed the place.

"Let's see what happens," Kahoku said finally.

"But sir, the prisoner is inside," the QRF commander reminded him. "She could be-"

"I know, Sergeant. I know."

Time passed fluidly and the assorted troops outside could hear the howls of the captured turian. No one knew exactly what Jack was subjecting him to, but it was clear enough she was torturing him.

Some of the Marines didn't mind the sound. After all, the turian was a part of the brutal attack that had killed many of their compatriots. These seasoned veterans were scarcely prepared to show mercy to someone who had killed their comrades after the war was finally over. Others found it distasteful or morally reprehensible and chafed under their idleness. The QRF commander urged Kahoku to act, but he was reluctant.

Then, Jack made it easy for him. The doors to the detention center slowly eased open and the slender form of the Psychotic Biotic stepped outside casually. She was limned by the spotlights brought by the QRF vehicles. Every Marine trained their rifles on her.

She stopped several meters outside of the entrance, apparently undisturbed by the small army that encircled her. "Commander," she called to Kahoku.

"Jack."

"Let me go, Commander," she advised him loudly. "I don't want to carve a path through these Marines. But I will."

"What are you going to do, Jack?"

"I'm going to find the assholes that killed my students and I'm going to put them through a thousand times more pain that I put that guy through," she announced morbidly. She gestured behind her with a single outstretched thumb.

Kahoku looked closer and saw a smattering of blood on her stomach, chest and face. "What did you do to him, Jack?"

"What you pussies couldn't."

Commander Kahoku sighed. "This isn't the right way."

"The right way?" Jack scoffed. "The right way to what? Getting stone-walled by some jerkoff mercenary? You had him for days. Fucking _days_, Makani. And what did you get? Shit."

"So you torture him?"

"If that's what it takes. Yes."

"You're better than that, Jack," Kahoku told her sincerely. "You're not the same girl Shepard found on Purgatory."

A gust of wind picked up some dust behind her. She felt her pony tail flap in the breeze. "No, Makani, I'm not better than that. I'm the same hateful bitch I was then. Only now my blood is boiling and I'm anxious to shred the assholes that killed my students." She took a few steps forward. The assembled Marines flinched and then steadied their aim on her. "So am I going to unleash hell on your Marines or are you going to let me pass?"

This was not the embers of some flame waiting for the breeze to smother it of life. This was a torrid fire storm prepared to consume all life that it encountered. All it needed was the right tinder to get it started.

Kahoku balked. In his peripherals he saw some of the nervous QRF members glance at him and then back at Jack. He was well aware Jack was capable of slaughtering them all. He hesitated, for the first time truly unsure of how he should proceed. The wind continued to pick up. It whistled as it passed and sent an unwelcome chill down the Commander's spine. "Jack," he murmured, then fell silent for some moments. He let out a sigh and gestured to the Marines. "Stand down. All of you stand down."

The Marines hesitated, but eventually did as they were ordered.

Jack strode toward Kahoku, her eyes still locked on her former commanding officer. When she was near him she reached out and offered him the Systems Alliance emblem that was worn on the dress uniform. "Here," she said. "I won't be needing this."

"Jack."

"Commander, I have something to take care of. I've already got my shuttle prepped. Don't send anyone after me," she told him calmly, then started to walk away. Suddenly she stopped and offered a backward glance over her shoulder. "And tell Mikhailovich to go fuck himself."

She took an air-car she'd stashed behind the detention, lifted into the air in a spray of debris and detritus and headed to the Alliance's nearby airfield. Her Kodiak was sitting idly on the tarmac near where she landed.

The cabin to her commandeered vessel hinged open with a mechanical hiss and Jack coolly stepped inside. The auto-lights illuminated the cabin. And she quickly learned she wasn't alone. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm going with you."

"No, Prangley. You definitely are not," Jack responded icily.

Jason Prangley rose from the seat he'd been waiting patiently in. His face was a stone mask of determination. "Yes I am. I don't care what you say."

Jack's faced contorted into a scowl. In an instant she lunged forward, grasped Prangley by the throat and slammed him against the Kodiak's bulkhead. The smoky eyeliner she wore did nothing to remove the hate deep within the recesses of her eyes. She stared daggers at Prangley who struggled in her grip. "I know you don't care what I say. That's why you're such a fuck up."

"I… how could I know?" Prangley muttered. "How could I know about an attack like that?"

Jack tilted her head as he attempted to speak. Her lips curled into a sneer. Then she released him. "Get out."

Prangley fell to his knees. A trembling hand reached up and rubbed at his throat. "No." He glanced up at her defiantly.

"I'm not going to say it again," Jack threatened. A purple aura began to form around her.

"They meant everything to me!" Prangley cried out in a wavering voice. "_She_ meant everything to me. And now they're dead. They're all dead because of _me_. I could have saved them. I could have."

Jack felt her jaw set and the familiar surge of rage course through her veins. A voice inside her demanded action. It told her there was only way to make the hurt deep inside her go away—and that was violence. It was what she knew; it was what she was best at. Shepard had tried to rehabilitate her, but it was of no use. The one thing that could make her right again had been cruelly taken from her. And someone was going to pay a terrible price for that.

But Prangley was not the one. Jack's hands, previously curled into fists, relaxed. The biotic aura that had surrounded her dissipated. "So what do you want, Prangley?" she questioned sardonically.

Jason Prangley slowly climbed his way back to his feet. His eyes were shimmering, the flesh around them puffy. "I want revenge," he said in a cracking voice. "I want to help you get the bastards that did this."

Jack's mouth was still focused into a frown. She narrowed her eyes on him. "Why should I let you?"

"Because I have nothing. Because… because I'll go back there and blow my brains out if you don't give me the chance," he cautioned in a trembling voice. A few loose tears streamed down his cheeks, caught the edge of his jaw and rode their way down to his quivering chin.

Jack looked away from him for a moment. Her gaze fell upon the floor of the Kodiak shuttle. "Fine," she said reluctantly. "Maybe you can earn back some of my trust. But I doubt it." She stepped passed him toward the cockpit of the shuttle.

Prangley collapsed into one of the crew seats as she passed. His chest heaved up and down as he fought to control the storm of emotions inside him. "Thanks," he said in a cracked voice.

"Yeah whatever," She callously shrugged off his words. "Quit your crying. This boat doesn't have any tissues and I've got no time for pussies.

"It's time to man the fuck up, Prangley."


	16. Chapter 16

His lips curled around the cigar and puffed methodically. The sweet stench of the tobacco rose skyward, infiltrating his nostrils. He studied the club with a pair of mismatched eyes. His empty hand errantly scratched at the ample scarring on the right side of his face.

The air was blood hot and muggy. It felt like the cramped interior of an old hiding place the man had used on a rickety transport vessel to escape some overzealous and corrupt authorities he'd pissed off on a distant planet—the name long forgotten. But this was Earth, some far-flung corner of Southeast Asia.

_The Palm and Paradise_, he said quietly to himself in an acidic tone. The brightly lit edifice was two stories high. Its interior was well-lit by a myriad of neon lights that pulsated to the electronic synths and beats that were broadcast by over-large speakers. The dance floor, tables and bar inside were totally exposed by open walls that were easily retracted during working hours to provide respite from the heat. The cheap ass owner couldn't be bothered to pay for air-con.

He could see a multitude of girls dancing in scantily clad outfits on the bars and tabletops inside. Articulate designs glowed brightly, painted on the flesh they laid bare to passersby. Most were human, but there were a few asari too. Others stood in the crowded streets trying to lure customers inside with promises of cheap drinks and the company of eager ladies.

He chuckled. It was a good business model. But an old one. He casually lobbed the remnants of his chewed up cigar into the gutter and strode across the busy road.

The music was loud. The bass seemed to beat upon his eardrums like they were for percussion rather than hearing. It was irritating, but he came to expect it in places like this. He was certainly no stranger to such establishments.

"Hey handsome man," a young Asian woman greeted him. She stepped in his way as he tried to pass the bar. Her naughty bits were barely covered by thin strips of exotically colored fabric. Lines of bright, glowing blue paint stretched up from between her thighs and across her bare stomach, only to disappear beneath the small amount of fabric that covered her pert breasts. "Looking for some pleasure?"

"Sorry, love, not right now," he responded seriously.

"Oh c'mon, sweetie. I'm a lot of fun," her eyebrows flexed provocatively. The tempo of the music accelerated and then dropped suddenly to a low, suggestive bass. All around them the crowd of people matched the pace as they grinded the night away upon one another.

"I'm here on business. Not pleasure," he explained evenly. "Now move."

She frowned and considered arguing further. Upon a closer study of the man, however, she decided he was not the sort to agitate. His face was grim and set with determination. His hair, more salt than pepper. He was aged, but that was not unusual among her clients here. He had the look of a soldier, also common, but there was a dangerous glimmer in those mismatched eyes of his. And that scar… The man wore it like a grisly badge of honor.

"Maybe next time," she suggested as she eased out of his way.

A glimmer of a grin appeared on his weathered face. "I wouldn't count on it, honey." He gave her a swift pat on the backside. "Now run along."

At the bar he spotted his target- a wiry man with overlong limbs, a ferret-like countenance and slicked-back dark hair. He fancied himself quite the player and was dressed in a finely tailored knock-off suit. From here he looked like something outfitted right off Savile Row itself, but upon closer inspection it was obvious he'd found himself something more local. His target was surrounded by a bevy of young, attractive women. All of whom were similarly dressed to the one that had greeted him earlier. Their naked flesh also painted in a myriad of colors.

And just beside him at the bar was his loyal little bodyguard. Only little was not the proper word to describe him. Like all wannabe thugs this rascal had hired the biggest mook he could find. Better to scare someone off with size than actual skill.

_Need to deal with that one first_, _if I want to talk business_.

The scarred man pushed his way past dancers and revelers. Those not too screwed up on red sand or busy with the hired women gave him adequate room. He crossed the room quickly then and found his way to the stool where the individual with slicked-back hair sat boozing with his paid-for-girlfriends. He was laughing, enjoying his carousing with the numerous young girls and sipping his ostentatious cocktail.

His eyes finally set on the scarred man that had arrived between him and the oversized mook he paid for protection.

His glass was frozen at his lips. After a moment he set it down and addressed the man that wore his scar so proudly. "Zaeed Massani, what a pleasure."

The mook's attention perked up at the revelation of who this visitor was. He turned to face Massani's back. He was of ample size and stood at least a head and half taller than the aged mercenary. As soon as his boss gave the word he'd deal with the man. For now, he'd let him speak.

Zaeed's attention was fully committed to the man surrounded by women. He didn't much worry about the ogre behind him. "Yeah, real fucking pleasure, Kovacs," Zaeed chortled.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Massani?" Kovacs asked in a slightly wavering voice. He delicately wiped some excess moisture from his upper lip and gazed at the mercenary with practiced detachment.

"Don't play coy with me you little weasel," Zaeed said a bit more angrily than he would have liked.

The women, sensing something was amiss, began to distance themselves from the conversation.

"Where's my guddamn money?" Zaeed questioned between grit teeth.

"Now this is an investment. You gave me money for an investment. It takes time to profit from investments, Mr. Massani," Kovacs replied a little shakily. "I'm sure you can appreciate that."

"Yeah," Zaeed looked around the lavish club as the rhythmic tunes continued to be belted out. Drinks were poured and shots were taken. Dancers, both hired and visiting, writhed against one another to the sound of the music. "It looks to me like the investment has already seen some returns. I want to cash in."

"It's not that simple, Mr. Massani," Kovacs responded cautiously. His ferret-like eyes scanned Zaeed's posture, trying to detect anything threatening in the old mercenaries body language. But his stance revealed nothing.

"Fuck you," Zaeed shot back. "If you don't pay me then I'll evacuate your brains from your skull faster than a pack of whores fleeing from arrest." He leaned forward ever-so-slightly, his head cocked to the side and he peered at Kovacs with those portentous mismatched eyes.

A quick, unintentional glance from Kovacs to his hired guard and the mook thought it was time to act. He reached out and placed his hand on Zaeed's shoulder, vice-like. "I think you need to watch your tone," he threatened ominously.

Zaeed stiffened when he felt the hand upon his shoulder. In a flash he whirled around on the gorilla-guard, snatched his considerable hand by the wrist gave a quick twist and slapped it down on the bar. Before the mook could react Zaeed already had his combat knife drawn from its sheath. With tremendous force he drove the tip of the blade through the man's hand and deep into the surface of the bar.

The bodyguard howled loudly as he felt the blade penetrate his flesh and sever the tendons in his hand. The pain was blinding.

Zaeed reached up and grabbed a tuft of the man's hair and then drove his head into the bar several times with perfectly applied force.

There was an eruption of frightened responses from nearby club-goers. The suddenness of Zaeed's attack had stunned most of them.

The bodyguard slumped to the ground unconscious, his hand still fixed to the bar by Zaeed's blade.

The mercenary turned back to Kovacs who stood in horror at what he had witnessed. "Now where is my money?"

'Z-Zaeed…" the weasel-like Kovacs stuttered. "I can't… just…"

"Look," Zaeed interrupted him. "Retirement isn't going as well as I had hoped. I gave you money. You gave me assurances on profit. It's been long enough. So pay up, mate."

The timing was right. Security had been dealt with. Now for payment. But Zaeed's sight blurred and a blunt wall of pain hammered through his skull from behind. Dazed, he stumbled forward for a moment before instinctively turning to address his attacker.

One of the painted ladies stood behind him, a cracked beer bottle in her shaky hand. She was frozen in fear.

"You bitch," Zaeed said groggily. A gloved hand reached up to rub at the sight of attack. Pain throbbed throughout his skull. It felt as though his entire brain was swelling up. He fought off the surprise and turned just in time to see Kovacs draw a miniature pistol—the Sparrow—a tiny little holdout gun for situations exactly like these.

Zaeed dropped to the floor, sliding well below Kovacs' aim as he fired wildly over the top of him. A slug ripped into the shoulder of a bartender behind Zaeed. The other rounds crashed into the ceiling harmlessly. Shrill screams erupted from the crowd and a panicked stampede started toward every exit of the building.

Kovacs was no gun-thug. He was terrified and out of his element, but seeing an opportunity he fled, forcing his way through the mob of frightened club-goers.

The DJ had abandoned his post but the music was still blaring as Zaeed stumbled to his feet. He rubbed the back of his scalp again, glanced over at the incapacitated mook and ripped his knife out of the man's hand. His limp arm dropped from the bar and Zaeed was quickly in pursuit of Kovacs.

The ferret-like club owner was pressing through the crowd like a fish swimming upstream. It was difficult and his small size didn't make it any easier.

Zaeed was closing the distance. Muscled arms yanked people out of the way or bowled others over. Zaeed was losing his patience. He watched as Kovacs escaped out a back exit into the alleyway beyond. With grit teeth he continued to press his way through the crowd, cursing them as he did. Then, from the midst of the gaggle of panicking revelers, another thug stepped up to protect Kovacs.

With a stun baton in hand the suited crony swung on Zaeed, but the mercenary deflected the blow with a winged arm, combat knife clutched tightly in hand. With his opposite arm he drove his fist into the man's gut like a piston. He could hear the breath rush from his lungs as the man bent forward. A quick follow-up from Zaeed's elbow caught the man on the chin and sent his head reeling backward. He stumbled a few meters and Zaeed was on him again, this time a horizontal elbow strike crossed his brow, opening a large gash just above his eyelid. The thug grunted as he reeled back, eventually collapsing on the ground.

With little ceremony Zaeed stepped over him and continued for the exit.

Outside the dulled tones of the electronic synths inside the bar could still be heard. It was gloomy out in an alley that extended in both directions. But his quarry was there waiting for him. _Foolish little prick_, Zaeed thought to himself.

Kovacs stood victoriously in the spotlight of an overhead lamp that cast bright white light upon him. His surroundings were shrouded in shadow.

"Now it's just you and me," Zaeed told him calmly as he stepped toward Kovacs. His combat knife was still wet with the blood of Kovacs' mook. He held it out to his side and flexed his fingers on the polymer grip.

Kovacs smiled stupidly at the mercenary. "I wouldn't be so sure of that," he warned.

From the murk behind him two armed figures appeared. One, a salarian, clutched a shotgun. The other, a hefty and mean-looking woman with a shaved head and a submachine gun stepped forward.

Zaeed stopped his march forward. His eyes looked back and forth between his two new enemies. Their weapons were leveled on him, he was hopelessly outgunned.

Kovacs laughed shrilly. His thin lips spread into a snarl. "You must be an idiot. You think I'd have just one guy working for me? Do you know who my father is?"

"I just want my money, Kovacs."

"There is no money for you," Kovacs hissed. "I took your money and used it up. I never intended to pay you back. Just like all the other idiots who _invested_ with me."

"Not a smart move, boy," Zaeed said threateningly.

"Oh please," Kovacs waved a carefree hand at Zaeed. "My dad is the heaviest hitter in the city. But a man has to strike out on his own and start somewhere right? Getting this club going was the first step."

"So you steal money from people and then fall back on your daddy's muscle, eh?" Zaeed chuckled. "Real bad ass over here."

"You're all small time," Kovacs said, sobering up some after Zaeed's remarks. "You might have been the most dangerous of everyone that invested with me. But I wasn't too concerned about a washed up old man."

"Big mistake," Zaeed threatened in a menacing, hushed tone. "I'm going to get my money out of you, boy. Even if I have to smash you open like a little piggy bank."

Kovacs felt a chill run down his spine, but that same stupid smile appeared on his face. "Fat chance of that happening. Take a look around you. You're not really in an advantageous position."

"I think you should do the smart thing and give the man his money," Zaeed heard the familiar accented voice of a woman say.

From the darkness behind Kovacs a slender hand emerged, a Hornet submachine gun clenched tightly in delicate fingers. Then a face appeared. Perfection by design. A real femme fatale. Gleaming blue eyes that belied a dangerous individual. Hair as black as the shadows from which she emerged.

The barrel pressed against the base of Kovacs' skull.

"Who the fuck are you?" Kovacs asked alarmed.

The SMG-wielding woman wheeled around to confront this new threat, but a sudden shotgun blast from the blackness in the alley sent her twirling into the grimy pavement.

The salarian's muscles twitched only slightly as the reality of the new status quo donned on him. Before he could react to anything he felt a sharp pinch in the upper part of his chest. He glanced down and with disbelief saw the polymer grip of Zaeed's combat knife jutting out of his chest. The mercenary had thrown it with expert precision. The shotgun clattered to the ground. The salarian hovered momentarily, before collapsing under his weight.

"Oh fuck!" Kovacs declared, throwing up both hands.

Zaeed briskly closed the distance. He knelt over the salarian, whose breathing was shallow. He gripped the handle of his blade and yanked it free. "Heh," he grunted. "I'm getting rusty. I was aiming for this fellow's heart." His eyes locked on Kovacs.

"I'll pay. I'll pay you," The words blundered out of his quivering lips in a hurry.

"I know," Zaeed smiled. "Why don't you throw in a little extra for my trouble? How does twice the amount owed sound? Good. Here's the account number." Zaeed produced a small slip of paper.

Kovacs, with the barrel of an SMG still at the base of his skull, hurriedly snatched the note from Zaeed. His omni-tool illuminated on his forearm as he tapped in a few keys. "Okay… okay," he stammered. "Paid in full. And a one hundred percent increase. Interest… g-good business, See?"

Zaeed leaned over to confirm the transfer of funds. His lips peeled back into a smile. "Out-bloody-standing."

"So we're good? You're going to let me go?" Kovacs was shaking. "You know my father-"

"Shut up," Zaeed held up a hand to silence the young ferret. "You can go." He waved down the alley.

Without a second thought Kovacs sprinted off down the alleyway. He didn't look back. Not at Zaeed. Not at the dead female, or the dying salarian. He just ran as fast as he could.

The sound of Zaeed's laughter echoed in his wake. "Run you guddamn little weasel. Run back to daddy." He turned his attention to the gorgeous SMG-armed woman. Her form-fitting combat uniform was taut across ample breasts. He cracked a sly smirk. "Normally I don't have a problem with beautiful women following me into dark alleys, but I have to make an exception when they're Cerberus."

The woman dropped her arm and re-holstered the SMG at the curve of her hip. "Former Cerberus, you mean," Miranda Lawson said in a that silky voice of hers.

Jacob Taylor stepped out of the gloom and placed his freshly-fired shotgun back on his lower back. "You're getting sloppy, Zaeed. Didn't even know we were here."

"Oh please," Zaeed mimicked a grimace. "I clocked you two turtledoves the moment you were on me. I saw you this morning when I left the hotel and again at lunch."

Jacob's lips curled into a smile. "Never mind then. I stand corrected."

"So what do you want, love?" Zaeed asked, glancing back at Miranda.

"Simple—we need your help."


End file.
